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SATURDAY EVENINGS. 



SATURDAY EVENINGS: 



A SERIES OF 



MORAL AND RELIGIOUS ESSAYS. 



BY MRS. C. V-R. M. HALE. 



NEW-YORK. 

JOHN DOUGLAS, PRINTER, 106 FULTON STREET. 
1845. 






The Library 
of Congress 

WASHINGTON 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1845, by M. R. Millek, in the 
Clerk's office of the District Court of the Southern District of the State 
of New- York. 



PREFACE. 

It is with unfeigned diffidence, that the writer of 
these " Essays" offers them to the public. Conscious 
that they possess no claim to originality, it is yet hoped 
that they may suggest some useful hint, or open to the 
mind pure and soothing trains of thought ; while the 
observations gathered in the onward course of busy 
years, may be of benefit to those with whom life is still 
untried, or to others, who, perplexed by its cares, and 
hurried by its business, find little leisure for calm reflec- 
tion. 

Mobile, Nov. 7, 1845. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Saturday Evening, 1 

Will and Habit, 6 

Autumn, 13 

Common-Place People and Things, . 17 

Dreams, 21 

Tolerance and Intolerance, . 28 

Self-Scrutiny, , 33 

Let Us Love One Another, 38 

The Purpose of Life, ...... 44 

Bear and Forbear, 49 

The Past and the Future, 54 

The Heathen's and the Christian's God, ... 59 

Infancy, , 65 

Self-Love, 70 

The Opening Year, 7Q 

Vindictiveness, 81 

The Burial Place, , 87 

Imagination, . 91 

The World's Eye, 97 

The Law of Kindness, 102 

Virtue of Courage, 108 

Sensitiveness, 113 



Vlll 



CONTENTS 



Curiosity, .... 

Sympathy, 

Our Influence upon Others, 

Social Inequalities, 

Prudence, 

The Daughter, 

Eyils of Discontent, . 

The Close of the Week, 

Precept and Practice, 

The Beginning and the End, 

Mental Dissipation, '. 

Home, .... 

Robert Hall, 

Vices of Temper, 

Death, .... 

Affliction, . 

Mrs. Inchbald, 

Tenacity of Prejudice, 

The Habit of Detraction, 

Constancy, - 

Happiness, . 

Intimations of a Future Life, 

Orphans, 

Love of Life, 

Night, .... 

Christmas, 

The Closing Year, 



SATURDAY EVENINGS. 



SATURDAY EVENING. 

How pleasantly do the subdivisions of time diversify 
our existence. The birth of the year, the grateful 
change of day and night, and the revolving week, vary 
agreeably the monotony of life, and form as it were so 
many rests, from which we may look back on the way 
we have come, or throw a wishful glance towards the 
future — that future through which we so passionately 
long to pierce, — in w T hose uncertainty we build so many 
baseless fabrics. No evening is to me more welcome, 
than that which closes in the week ; the hurry and 
rush of business seem to pause, the anxious cares that 
occupy us are hushed or suspended, our six days' work 
is done, and we gladly prepare to take our rest. To 



those who think at all, the reflections which the last 
evening of the week suggest, must partake of a serious 
character. 

" Whose day so bright, that its rapid flight 
Leaves not a trace of sorrow ?" 

Few can review, even a week, whose events have been 
unruffled in their course. An unkind look from a friend, 
the taunt of an enemy, the regretted folly, the unguard- 
ed word, — who so wise as not to commit the one, or 
so fortunate as always to escape the other ? Whose 
cup is so unmixed as not sometimes to taste of these 
bitter ingredients ? The flight of time, too, the swift- 
ness with which the winged hours (an epithet too true 
for poetry) pass by, if we would pause to note it, might 
well sober the most heedless. Inconsistent as we are, 
we allow and feel the force of this truth, and yet by 
our passions and follies, " shake with mad haste the 
golden sands of life." The hopes, enterprizes and no- 
velties of a new existence, veil its termination from the 
eye of youth ; but as the stream bears us on, these in- 
tervening objects lessen or disappear, and the tomb 
stands in bolder relief before us. Happy, if by timely 
reflection, we have grown familiar with the view. 
Brighter thoughts, however, will enliven our retrospect. 
Life is not all evil ; a liberal benefactor has strewn 
unnumbered sweets in our path, were we not too care- 



less, or too proud, to stoop to gather them. Domestic 
pleasures, literary enjoyments, the kindness of friends, 
the esteem of fellow men, and an approving conscience, 
— with what a soothing influence, do such images steal 
over the mind. How will the recollection of a gene- 
rous action, a few kind words, or a virtuous resolution 
carried into effect, tranquillize and fortify the heart. — 
An hour spent in this manner, at the close of each 
week, would be well and pleasantly employed, and 
would be a good preparation for that final review of 
our lives, which, sooner or later we must take, when 
about to bid the world, its cares and its pleasures, a 
long good night. 

In the calm twilight of the Saturday eve, as the past 
events, and persons with whom we have mingled, pass, 
like the characters of the drama before our imagination, 
we might collect useful hints for the future. Look nar- 
rowly into the machinery of society, examine the springs 
which move the mass around us, you will find there is 
nothing new ; — that which hath been, shall be, what 
happens to-day, will recur again, in a different shape, 
but the same in principle, to-morrow. The treachery 
that" betrayed, the ingratitude that wounded us last 
week, will betray and wound us again, unless, grown 
wise by experience, we guard against them. But best 
of all, an honest criticism of the past will reveal to us 



our own mistakes, " for few are the faults we flatter 
when alone f* and thus give us an opportunity of 
amendment. I have somewhere read the story of a 
tradesman who was observed to give overflowing meas- 
ure to his customers. — When questioned as to the mo- 
tive to this unusual liberality, he said, * we pass through 
life but once, — if I make an error now, I cannot re- 
turn to rectify it." A homely but a wise saying. How 
many a dying pillow has been made uneasy by the re- 
membrance of errors now too late to repair, which, had 
reflection been allowed its proper influence, might have 
long been obliterated. 

I was led into this train of thought, as taking a soli- 
tary walk, I observed around the various signs of wind- 
ing up the business of the week. The houses gave in- 
dications that the terrible visitation of mops and brush- 
es had effected their wholesome influence ; here and 
there a lazy house-maid loitered over her work, or lean- 
ed on her broom. The whistle of the returning labor- 
er, and his leisurely pace, rejoiced my heart ; the very 
beasts of burden seemed to know and taste the pleasures 
of Saturday eve, — not alone pleasant to the tired me- 
nial and laborer. Thou busy merchant absorbed in nev- 
er ending schemes, suspend awhile the perplexities 
which excite, while they harass the mind. Let the fur- 
rowed brow of study be smoothed and cleared from ev- 



ery shade, dismissing the every-day world, we will close 
the door against it, while friendship, benevolence, and 
peace, shall draw a magic circle around our fireside, 
beyond which sordid cares and meaner passions may 
not pass. Thus let us consecrate our Saturday eve- 
nings to grateful calm enjoyment, attuning our minds 
for the sacred day that follows, that so our thoughts 
may, 

" like angels, seen of old 
" In Israel's dream, come from and go to heaven." 



WILL AND HABIT. 

" How just our pride, when we behold those heights I 
-' Not those ambition paints in air, but those 
" Reason points out, and ardent virtue gains, 
"And angels emulate," 

A celebrated Heathen represents the mind in her 
vehicle, by the driver of a winged chariot, which some- 
times moults and droops. This chariot is drawn by 
two horses, one good and of a good race, the other of a 
different kind, figuratively expressing the tendency of 
the mind to truth, but retarded by sordid inclinations, 
and representing the struggles between reason and 
passions, like horses that draw contrary ways, *and 
move with unequal pace, thus embarrassing the soul in 
its progress to excellence. This seems an apt symbol 
of our moral course. Whoever has examined his own 
character and actions, and reflected on the possibility 
of a future account to One, in whom every elevated 
aspiration, every refined sensibility, tells him he has 
his being, but must perceive, that the instincts which 



would lead him to seek the exaltation of his na- 
ture, are often opposed by adverse principles. — The 
purity of virtue, which bestows on it its most attractive 
beauty, how easily is it sullied by the indulgence of 
appetite, and its delicacy like the wings of the ideal 
chariot droop despoiled of their buoyancy and strength, 
How often do we feel the reins of self-government 
tremble in our hands through the turbulence of in- 
ordinate desires. Of these struggles between contend- 
ing principles in our hearts all are conscious ; we feel 
from w T hat we would 1 be, and what we are, that a dete- 
rioration has passed over our nature ; that like a muti- 
lated picture from the genius of an unrivalled artist, 
though the greatness of the design may be traced,— 
the hand of a master is visible, its primeval beauty is 
blurred and faded. These considerations joined to a 
sense of the obstacles which life and its temptations 
throw in our way, might almost produce dismay in the 
mind, awakened to a noble ambition, whose regards 
were fixed upon the attainment of moral excellence, 
and whose corrected taste, won by the loveliness of vir- 
tue, refused its devotion to the grosser idols of the 
world. But if there is an effort which may be called 
divine in its nature and objects, it is when man en- 
deavors to rise above such discouragements, to retrace 
and deepen the nearly effaced lines of goodness in his 



8 

mind, by self-command and fervent invocations for 
divine aid to expunge from his nature what is evil, by 
virtuous action to recal its brighter colors, until remov- 
ed and strengthened, his spirit reflects to heaven the 
impress of its purity. Whosoever complains of the 
tedium of life, that his days are monotonous and his ac- 
tions without excitement, here is an object which will 
banish languor forever, before whose absorbing interests 
days will dwindle to hours, the vexations of time lose 
half their power to grieve, — an object which, while it 
seems to contract existence into a term too brief for its 
accomplishment, invests it with inconceivable interest 
and importance. Who does not sometimes lose himself 
in dreams of perfection, fancying his character adorned 
by virtues, ennobled by moral dignity, — but here ima- 
gination stops, it is for reason to urge us, with energy 
to embody the vision in our practice, that we may not 
be virtuous only in fancy, but cherish the instinct which 
weaves those dreams of excellence, not by its vain in- 
dulgence, but by exciting the best powers of the soul ; 
to be, indeed, what we have only imagined ourselves. 
In the Grecian games, the crown for which the candi- 
dates contended, was elevated to their view, to inspire 
emulation, and arouse the flagging hope ; thus the im- 
provement of our character, with its high rewards, its 
sustaining motives, are a prize held out to the mind, 



beside whose inestimable worth the wreaths of fame, 
the diadems of honor, appear paltry as faded leaves and 
gilded tinsel. 

But at the very first step we meet a serious difficulty ; 
while we have been reposing in mental sloth, evil ha- 
bits have been twining around us their strong though 
tiny cords, and it requires but little reflection to learn 
how even reason may be bribed when custom pleads. 
It were needless to speak of the force with which habit 
acts upon the character, and the vigi]ance with which 
we should guard against the formation of such as are 
prejudicial to the liberty of the soul. Every one knows 
and feels this, for there are few so blest, as to be able 
to look upon the past, without deploring the deleterious 
influence of some wrong habit of thought or action. It 
is more important to observe, that mighty as this power 
is, it can be successfully resisted and broken. A vicious 
bias may be fostered until it becomes as it were, a law 
of our nature, till we seem to others, and to ourselves, 
its slave and victim ; but we are only enthralled while 
we are willing slaves ; the moment a desire to resist the 
tyrant enters our mind, one link of the fetter that bound 
us is severed. The faintest throb of the heart for free- 
dom, even when tangled in the most degrading bonds, 
is a healthful pulse, and indicates returning strength. 
We should hail it as an angel appearing to unbar our 



10 

prison doors, and cherish it until, ripened into resolution, 
it lent us energy to re-assert our moral independence. 
No individual, however overpowered by the cruel mas- 
tery of pernicious habits, has a right to conclude that 
for him there is no hope ; — heaven does not pass upon 
him this sentence, for it permits him to live. None 
have the hardihood to deny the physical ability of ab- 
staining from evil. When Napoleon was asked if he 
deemed it possible to cure a long cherished habit, he 
replied, as easily as you can submit to the amputation 
of a limb, — a fine remark, which he drew, perhaps, un- 
consciously from very high authority. But w T hile to 
save the frame, all are willing to part with one of its 
most useful members, few act on the same wise princi- 
ple in mental diseases. Neither may such a person say 
that he has not the moral power to retrieve himself to 
virtue ; while there remains one accusing thought, one 
desire of better things, all is not lost ; unsettled as must 
be the state of a mind debased and crushed by lawless 
passions, hardened into habit, yet hope which comes to 
all, may come to him. If the kindness of Heaven has 
not been withheld through a course of vicious perseve- 
rance, we may hope for its continuance and propitious 
regards, when with a vigorous effort we break through 
every difficulty and endeavor to retrace our erring steps. 
The spectacle of an immortal and once noble spirit, 



11 

struggling to free itself from the toils of guilt, and es- 
cape the moral death of degradation, must be one which 
enlists the sympathies not only of benevolent hearts on 
earth, but awakens the interest of those holy intelli- 
gences who, we are taught, receive accessions of joy at 
the return to happiness of the humblest child of earth. 
While it is conceded that our way is environed by 
many dangers, and that solicitations to evil meet us at 
every turn of life, clothed in alluring forms, yet the in- 
ducements to virtuous practices and religious excellence, 
are also strong and numerous. They call on him who, 
wandering from the path of rectitude, casts himself from 
even the sympathies of his kind, and bid him hope. 
They urge those who, though preserving exterior pro- 
priety, are conscious that all is not peace within, to 
awake their powers and exert their strength in the no- 
ble controversy, and they propose no less a reward than 
the enjoyment of true pleasure. In the allegory of So- 
crates, pleasure and pain, though contrary in their na- 
ture, and though their faces look different ways, are sup- 
posed to be tied by Jupiter, together, so that he who lays 
hold of the one draws the other along with it. This 
may well apply to the mixed and fleeting joys of sense ; 
but the happiness which we receive from virtue is pure 
and lasting as it is precious ; she never was allied to 
suffering, and brings no sorrow in her train. Bosom 



12 

peace, sustaining hope, benevolent wishes, regulated 
desires, placid tempers and pure thoughts — these are 
at once the motives and the rewards extended to man, 
by that beneficent Power whose bounty crowns the ef- 
fort which His goodness excited and sustained. 



13 



COMMON-PLACE PEOPLE AND THINGS. 

I purpose to write a chapter on common-place 
things and common-place people — apparently an un- 
promising subject, but there is something to be said 
about it. It would be a nice inquiry what are common- 
places ! The gay think all serious discourse so, be- 
cause they have heard it often and with weariness; 
those fond of rhetorical display call simplicity com- 
mon-place ; while they who love abstruse disquisitions 
are apt to Confound it with practical matters. Indeed, 
this is far from being an age of dull monotony : we 
have become so accustomed to wonderful achievements 
in arts and science, as to cease to wonder at any pro- 
digy and invention for which our forefathers would 
have been deified or burned : they are met with cold 
exclamations on the march of intellect ! 

That a subject is uninteresting because it is familiar, 
does not necessarily follow ; else, how great a portion 
of fine writing and speaking would be classed as com- 
mon-place, for there is nothing which has not been, 
c 



14 

Common-place people, as they are the majority, so 
they are the most useful part of society, forming as it 
were the balance wheel of the machinery. It is they, 
who, keeping the even tenor of life, hold on to real 
things, while bright geniuses are flying off in eccen- 
tric wanderings. They are practical persons in busi- 
ness, generally paying their debts. In religious mat- 
ters, they walk in the good old paths which have been 
tested and consecrated by past generations ; they are 
content to be no wiser than the Bible, and to believe 
their Creator's word though they cannot understand the 
mysteries of His being. They are never transcend en- 
talists — that atmosphere would be too rarefied for them, 
neither is it likely any of their class would approve of 
Mesmerism. 

You might not think of asking a common-place man 
to write a critique upon Milton, but you would entrust 
your property to him, or make him your executor. Ad- 
dison, in one of his allegories, introduces a worthy ma- 
tron, in rendering her account of her life's labors, as 
recording among the rest that she had made forty thou- 
sand cheeses, £c. Now this was a common-place wo- 
man, and had doubtless a comfortable house and well 
provided family. Shall we allow the frivolous and 
fashionable, who live a butterfly life of pleasure, a 
place here 1 Not so : they are but froth and foam now, 



15 

though they may be brought by circumstances to be 
worthy of the name. 

It was the advice of a shrewd man to a young ora- 
tor, " Fire low." Why % that he might hit the com- 
mon-place people, and, affecting them, benefit the 
greatest number. This is the secret of the popularity 
of most of our light literature : it entertains, without 
tasking the mind ; and those I speak of, would be amu- 
sed and instructed, too, with the least possible effort on 
their part. 

To be a common-place man, though the term is often 
applied in contempt, is rather desirable. He will not 
astonish or dazzle his neighbors, but they will like him 
better than if he did ; he may never be very rich, but 
it is not probable that he will be very poor ; he may 
not understand the reveries of philosophy, but he will 
know his duty to God and man. 

His head may never have ached over Hebrew roots 
and philological doubts, but taking the truth as he finds 
it in his own tongue, and acting it out in every-day 
practice, he arrives at sound and safe conclusions, 
though not able to give a learned reason for them. 

Pope has slyly smiled at those who are " content to 
live in decencies ;" but there are so many who do not 
aspire as high, that we may spare the sneer. 

I have heard of a writer who submitted his produc- 



16 

tions to the judgment of his cook, thinking that -what 
pleased her would suit the multitude. 

All these considerations, then, reconcile me to the 
thought of being found among this class. If not able 
to surprise, it is something not to offend ; I may not 
bestow a great benefit upon the world, but in my own 
sphere I may spread unnumbered blessings, not the less 
precious that they are common, and thus gild and ele- 
vate the dull realities of every-day existence. 

I may occupy a small niche in society, may steal 
out of it at last, unmissed by the crowd, and my resting 
place may be but a grassy hillock, but if a few remem- 
ber me with love and none with hatred — if but one 
visit my grave and recal my memory, I shall not regret, 
though no sculptured marble speaks of great exploits. 



AUTUMN. 

Beautiful is autumn ! How often do we repeat this, 
and yet, how freshly does the fact present itself, as the 
revolving months bring around the closing year. Spring 
is lovely, but amidst all its glare and bloom, a languor 
spreads over the frame, and so evanescent are its charms, 
that we sigh while we enjoy them. But the gradually 
attempered winds of autumn brace the spirits, while its 
sere leaves suggest serious but not unpleasing reflections. 
When we walk beneath the trees that had screened us 
from the summer's sun, and observe at intervals its dis- 
colored leaves, like time's first touch upon the cluster- 
ing locks of ripened manhood, the truth that we all do 
fade as a leaf, comes home to our bosoms. When " au- 
tumn winds rushing" drive before them the withered 
garlands of summer, how apt an image do they present 
of our futile resolutions, our wavering plans of faded 
pleasures — of blighted prospects — of our own vacilla- 
ting course, driven by conflicting passions to and fro 
as a leaf. 



18 

To the inhabitants of a Southern clime, this season 
is peculiarly welcome. The strength and energies 
which have drooped beneath the long-continued in- 
fluence of an ardent sun suddenly revive, and we 
hail autumn as an introduction to winter, which here 
is shorn of all its icy terrors, and which is marked 
as the season of cheerful meetings and re-unions be- 
tween separated friends. Who has not felt the re- 
novating influence of a fine October day, when the 
sky is full of rays, with no cloud to sully their bright- 
ness ; when the air, pure and elastic, seems to give a 
spring to active enjoyment, while the eye is never sa- 
tiated with the brilliant tints of the varying foliage of 
the forest ? Nor is Flora's coronet undecorated, though 
the delicate blossoms of spring and summer have pas- 
sed away; their places are supplied by flowers of rich- 
er hue, for, fair nature, like fair woman, loves to vary 
her adornments, and orange, deep pink, and royal pur- 
ple, are her favorite colors now. Let us admire them 
to-day, for, in a brief space, even these gems of the dy- 
ing year will be sought in vain ; but while we scatter 
the petals of the last rose of summer, or bid farewell to 
the " late, late flower that decks the sallow autumn," 
hope mingles with our regrets. — We know that they 
are only hid from our sight for a-while, — that safely de- 
posited in earth, and guarded from the coming tern- 



19 

pests, spring will bring them again in renewed loveli- 
ness and vigor. 

Hence it is, that though the sere season of the year 
excites serious reflections, they are not deepened into 
sadness. And why should we dread the autumn of life 1 
What though the hopes of youth, like the buds of spring 
time, have faded from our hearts, — virtue and religion 
offer to our acceptance their imperishable beauties. 
What though many of those beloved ones, whose pres- 
ence, like the flowers of summer, once enlivened our 
path, have withered from our side, and are laid in the 
dust, — shall we not hope for a second spring of life, 
which shall revive the ashes of the urn '? Shall we 
confidently predict the returning bloom of a transient 
flower ; do we know that life will revive the dying 
worm, — that the insect will again spread its fragile 
wing, and can we entertain the thought that man 
alone shall be forgotten ? No, as surely as from the 
unsightly root which conceals the future plant, new 
stems shall spring, new flower-buds and blossoms, and 
delight the sense with returning odours, — so certainly 
may we cherish the hope that the virtues of those we 
lament will flourish again, beneath a brighter sun, in a 
purer atmosphere, and with unfading beauty. 

In watching the progress of the seasons, as exhibited 
in the economy of vegetation, from the tender blade, 



20 

the budding germ, to the perfected fruit and the final 
withering of the plant, how naturally might we apos- 
trophise their fleeting tribes. — " You have finished your 
determined hour, laughed in the sunbeam, inhaled the 
dew of eve, bent beneath the adverse gale, or drooped 
under the pitiless rain, and now the power which called 
you into being, remands you, your course accomplish- 
ed, back to earth." Why should we repine at the same 
destiny which awaits us ? We, too, enjoy our spring 
pleasures, our hours of summer ease ; — let us not com- 
plain, when fading nature admonishes that man must 
wither as the grass, that, in comparison to the infinite 
space to which he is hastening, his life has little more 
continuance than the lowly flower that bends beneath 
his step. How impressive then the moral this .season 
conveys to all, and peculiarly suitable to the reflections 
of this evening ! To those particularly, who trifle in 
life's balmy spring, it urges, " trifle not all these propi- 
tious hours away ; leave not for experience to tell how 
cheerless is the autumn of that life, whose opening 
years have been misspent." Cheerless indeed, when 
the touch of coming age chills the energies of the soul, 
when our failing spirits convince us that our summer is 
past, to feel that we have lived in vain; — that, unlike 
the inanimate works of the Creator, we have not ful- 
filled our moral course, although its natural term has 
reached its final period. 



21 



DREAMS. 

" Dreams are strange things : do you believe in 
them V' said one of a group of friends who were con- 
versing together. Various replies were given to the 
question, until the conversation was left with two of the 
company, who differed in their opinions. 

" I consider dreams," said one, " but as the conti- 
nued actings of the intellect, though being released for 
a time from the excitement and impressions of external 
objects. Its powers have freer play ; the realities of 
waking life no longer chaining the wings of the ima- 
gination, it soars unchecked ; memory, too, is active ; 
no new images arising between the present and the 
past. Indeed, to the sleeper there is no present : the 
events of the past day or days, form the materials of the 
night vision — the groundwork, so to speak, of the 
scene presented to the mind, though the connecting link 
may almost elude observation." 

" Allowing this," said the first speaker, " still facts 
which would seem authenticated, prove that in nume- 



22 

rous instances dreams have afforded intimations of fu- 
ture events. Not to mention those with which we are 
familiar, some have occurred within my own know- 
ledge which were at least remarkable. One was re- 
lated to me by a person of strong stern mind, religious, 
but accustomed to regard that, and every other subject 
in a dry light, with little sensibility or imagination ; — - 
this was the last person I should have suspected of 
dreaming a dream. 

" I imagined," was the narrative, " that I was tra- 
velling with a throng of persons a wide and beaten 
way ; after some time a party of us diverged into a 
narrower path, which turned from the main road. In 
proceeding along I saw one and another retracing their 
steps, till but a small and scattered group remained. 
It was then that I perceived far in advance a command- 
ing figure, who often looked back upon us, and seemed 
to be our guide. While I felt attracted towards him as 
my protector, and won by a certain benignity and 
beauty in his countenance, I was conscious also of a 
desire to escape from his observation. I often purposely 
loitered, sometimes I turned into bye-paths, sometimes 
sat down and slumbered till my conductor would be 
almost out of sight, then a sudden fear would urge me 
to hasten until I came near him, when he would stop 
and wait my approach, and meet me with a mild but 



23 

reproving look, for he never spoke. Then I would fol- 
low, humbled and watchful. Thus we continued a long 
distance, until as the day was closing we arrived at 
what seemed to be a vast morass, entirely impassable, 
dark, dreary, bridgeless. Beyond it, surrounded by 
beautiful scenery, stood a mansion, which as the dark- 
ness of night came on was brilliantly illuminated, while 
strains of delicious melody and notes of joy floated over 
the dark barrier between us, and awoke in my heart 
intense desire to reach this scene of happiness. For 
the first time I ventured to address my guide, and en- 
treated him to assist me over this dreary gulf. Look- 
ing kindly upon me he repeated twice the word " Wait, 
wait," and I saw him no more. Long, long did I wait 
in darkness, my heart only upheld from despair by the 
bright scene beyond me, till at length, when hope had 
almost died, I saw a vehicle, self-impelled, approaching 
me. I ascended ; we moved on ; sounds and visions of 
blessedness came near, and in the joy of the moment I 
awoke. 

" This, you say, might all naturally arise in the mind 
of a young Christian, and would need no prophet's 
skill to explain its bearings. He himself thus consi- 
dered it ; but when, twenty years after, he found him- 
self in a strange region, the victim of a hopeless yet 
lingering and excruciating malady, thrown upon the 



24 

charity of strangers ; alone, with no resource but Hea- 
ven, who seemed to say to him wait, and no consola- 
tion but such as the hope of future peace affords — he 
thought he read the fulfilment of his dream, and the 
word ( wait' was often on his patient lips." 

His friend replied, " A prophetic dream implies a 
miracle, and it is not consistent nor referential to sup- 
pose that the Deity would supernaturally interpose, un- 
less for some highly important object." 

" The assumption that we are immortal," returned 
the first speaker, " invests man with such interest, that 
nothing which affects his destiny can be called trivial. 
That the Benevolent Power who created him should 
care for him ; that he should appoint severe trials to 
produce salutary results upon his character, we do not 
doubt ; now why is it fanciful to think, that in view of 
a life of bitter grief or severe conflict, the all-pervading 
spirit should condescend to give to the individual some 
pre-intimation or warning, wherewith to fortify the 
soul, while passing through its appointed ordeal. 
Though in His wisdom the All- Wise may see that it is 
best that the blow should fall upon the heart of His de- 
pendent creature, why may He not soften its force by 
an intimation conveyed either by a dream, or by some 
of those mysterious impressions which we know do af- 
fect our minds, though we cannot trace their origin. 



25 

Why start at the sound of mysteries and miracles'? 
Where does the supernatural commence ? where are no 
wonders 1 Even excluding the interposition of Deity 
entirely, and assigning all to Fate or Chance, we can- 
not escape mysteries. Our nature, our mental consti- 
tution, the earth we inhabit, is filled with them." 

" True," was the reply ; " still, nothing but theories 
can be built upon the baseless fabric of a dream, and 
the whole matter will probably always be to us a " terra 
incognita." I must confess, however, that this subject 
has given me enlarged views of the powers of the soul. 
I have heard related, and have myself been conscious 
of, ideas and images occurring to the mind in dreams, 
much more sublime than I remember imagining when 
awake. Apart from superstition or fancy, it is doubt- 
less a most interesting subject of contemplation. It is 
one of those phases of our immaterial being, which to 
me speaks of immortality. Conceding this, I still judge 
that dreams are the mirrors of the past, not of the fu- 
ture. Our Creator has provided for our support through 
His revealed word, and by the ordinary sources of com- 
fort in the sympathy of friends, the aid of prayer ; and 
I see no benefit which would outweigh the evil which 
would ensue, were it admitted that dreams were sent 
from heaven. You have related a vision in support of 
your view : hear one in proof of mine. A friend who 

D 



26 

was suffering under the loss of one fondly loved, told 
me that after a day of anguish he sunk into that deep 
sleep which sorrow often induces when the mind, wea- 
ried with its restless tossings, sinks reluctantly like a 
wailing infant into slumber. When the first lethargy 
of his spirit had passed away, he thought that he be- 
held an innumerable concourse of shadowy forms ar- 
ranging themselves in circles within circles upon a vast 
plain. These circles of living beings were continually 
moving one within another, so as to bring each indivi- 
dual in contact with each. A light far exceeding that 
of the sun, or of many suns, irradiated the immense 
area, and made manifest every feature of that silent 
assemblage, for not a sound broke the silence of the 
scene. Solemnity, but no sadness, marked every face, 
while as they passed and repassed eyes were lighted 
with joy, smiles were beaming, and hands were out- 
stretched and fondly, passionately grasped. ' What,' 
said the sleeper, ( oh ! what does this mean V l These,' 
was the answer, l were once the inhabitants of earth, 
and here they meet and thus they recognise the long- 
wept friend.' Just then a well-known glance met his, 
— a hand was waved, and with a cry of joy, the suffer- 
er awoke. In this impressive dream we can distinctly 
trace the transcript of the past naturally recurring, and 
what, when awake would have been passing thoughts, 



27 

becoming to the mind of the sleeper for a season, liv- 
ing realities. The best use then that we can make of 
dreams, is to take the hints they give us, as to the hue 
of our cherished thoughts in hours of action. All oth- 
er things being equal, it is to the pure and heavenly- 
minded that pure and peaceful images will come, and, 
like the visits of seraphs, hallow the couch of rest. 
Passion, excess, or impurity, ^ust leave a stain upon 
the spirit which will sully its very dreams, and ruffle 
the downy pinions of that sweet angel whom we call 
Sleep. 



28 



TOLERANCE AND INTOLERANCE. 

Surely if each man saw another's heart, 
There would be no commerce, 
All would disperse 
And live apart. 

If the assertion of this homely poet be correct, it 
augurs a perverse abuse of capacities alike honorable 
and productive of pleasure. It was the remark of 
a wise heathen, that he never quitted the society 
of men without feeling himself less a man. Strange, 
too, when we reflect that men instinctively seek to 
herd together, that the desire of kindly intercourse is 
in itself laudable, and that the power of speech, the 
organ of that intercourse, is one of the noblest endow- 
ments of humanity. Is it possible that society as a 
mass, is held in compact by a general system of con- 
cealment ? It seems the sentence of a harsh judge, to 
say, that were men sincere in the full extent of the 
word, they would fly each other's presence with hatred, 
or only meet to indulge emotions of indignation ; yet 



29 

who that for a moment looks within, and marks the se- 
verity with which he judges, how prone he is to harsh 
constructions of the actions which come before his cog- 
nizance, his hasty conclusions and his prejudices, but 
must instantly acknowledge that it would not be expe- 
dient to introduce the objects of his criticism, into the 
secret recesses of his mind. Believe me, the fabulous 
window in the human breast, would be an inconvenience 
to the most benevolent. A closer examination may 
perhaps discover to us some alleviating causes, for this 
unpleasant fact; for though no blind apologist for hu- 
man frailty, neither should my pen be employed in 
darkening it with unnecessary shades. We have me- 
lancholy evidence, that man has lost the brightness of 
his Maker's image ; be not mine the gloomy task of 
disguising the faint traces of that glorious impression 
which remains. We must concede that much of the 
censure which in our thoughts we pass upon men's cha- 
racter, springs from uncharitableness and prejudice, but 
much also is unavoidably the result of our perceptions 
of right and wrong. If we grant (and who so wayward 
as not to allow it) that imperfection is an ingredient in 
our nature, then is it impossible to avoid perceiving it ; 
disapproval of others, may therefore be entertained in 
the mind without unkindness, although the expression 
of that sentiment might be cruel and offensive ; the 



30 

most attached friends must be often sensible of the er- 
rors of each ; were their feelings of disapproval made 
known, the consequence might be a sudden termination 
of their intimacy ; but lying dormant in the mind, they 
have not the strength to engender dislike in the one, 
and are totally unknown to exist in the other. It fol- 
lows that a veil of reserve around the thoughts is ne- 
cessary, not only by reason of our nature's perversity, 
but of the constitution of our moral frame. To survey 
the subject in another light, were we empowered to 
read the passing reflections of our friends while in the 
interchange of civilities, we should doubtless see many 
opinions connected with our own characters, whose jus- 
tice we would not impugn, and whose existence in the 
bosom even of a friend, we could not impute to want of 
affection ; yet, the perusal would be anything but agree- 
able. Self-love would be alarmed, and pride, the nox- 
ious serpent that infests every human heart, would raise 
its reptile head in anger. It is well, then, on every ac- 
count, that our thoughts are to the observation of our 
fellow beings as a sealed volume ; and wo to him who 
should possess the fatal power of breaking the seal and 
mastering the contents. Let me not be understood to 
compromise sincerity, that jewel of the mind, in the 
absence of which all else is useless glitter— sincerity, 
the conservative of social union, the staff of the mistrust- 



31 

ing, the salt of life's feast, at once, its seasoning, and 
the pledge of confidence. It is indeed a wise sincerity 
which is the great antidote to the evils which obtain in 
the intercourse of civilized society. Since " the flow- 
ers of Eden felt the blast," the consequence of man's 
defection, this virtue remains to us, the sure test of ex- 
cellence, and its conscious possession alone bears us on 
unmoved amid the jarring and change, the inconsisten- 
cies and absurdities we daily witness. Singleness of 
intention affords its possessor compensation for much 
injustice, and gives that which outweighs a world's huz- 
zas ; he stands firmly even when hunted by open-mouth- 
ed slander, who can conscientiously pronounce his own 
acquittal. Were sincerity and simplicity of speech 
more prevalent, Seneca had spared his sarcasm • then 
might conversation be conducted with frankness, guard- 
ed by discretion ; the swelling words of mere profes- 
sion would not be heeded, and language accomplishing 
its proper use would be a divine instrument, from whose 
various chords, the hand of charity and candour might 
elicit sounds sweet and invigorating. 

It cannot be denied that great advantages might 
flow from beholding ourselves in the faithful mirror of 
another's impartial judgment; but, it would require 
some magnanimity to withstand the shock, not only to 
our vanity but to our better feelings. With what emo- 



32 

tions of grief would we read the latent censure or wear- 
iness or distaste in the heart of a beloved associate. 
Who could endure the chrystal walls of the palace of 
truth. Bat though we may not, and if wise we would 
not see the hearts of others, our own may be fully ex- 
plored ; and in searching the errors, noting the defi- 
ciencies, or tracing the intricate windings, of that 
world which lies open to our view alone, we can form 
a correct estimate of man in general. From a close 
survey of ourselves, we can learn sufficient to guide our 
path, and mitigate the severity of our judgment. 
Where we detected obliquity, the remembrance of dark 
spots upon our own purity, would stay the ready re- 
buke ; feeling innate weakness, we would not pry un- 
kindly into the infirmities of another. Might I a little 
alter the sentiment of our motto, I would say, that a 
conviction of our universal liability to error, from which 
none, no, not one, can plead exemption, should soften 
our feelings towards all the vast family among whom 
we are brethren. Owning ourselves all transgressors, 
feeling ourselves all sufferers, closer should be our com- 
munion of forbearance and kindness, not ours to disperse 
and live apart, but hand in hand to stem life's torrent 
often rough, and linked in the sacred bonds of charity 
here, together strive for a destiny of holy peace, in that 
region of light, where nothing is hid, but all shall be 
known as they are. 



33 



SELF SCRUTINY. 

"lis greatly wise to talk with our past hours — 
Their answers form what men experience call. 

But not more wise than difficult. The habit of strict- 
ly scrutinising, or analysing our motives, and searching 
through the windings of the heart, is one that finds no 
countenance from our love of self-flattery and ease. If 
conscience is honest, and in an hour of calm reflection, 
it endeavors at least to be so, there is much to appal 
the best, in reviewing themselves. When we behold 
the crowd of passions, the poisoning leaven of selfish- 
ness which spreads its taint throughout — when we re- 
collect time misused — wasted opportunities neglected, 
or duties omitted, — when we contemplate the evil we 
have done, outweighing so far the scanty measure of 
good attempted, it is not surprising that we shrink back 
w'ith dismay, and, shaking off such irksome thoughts, 
relinquish the task in disgust. Was the moralist too 
severe when he said. 



34 



" Heaven's sovereign saves all beings bnt himself, 
That hideous sight — a naked human heart. " 

If , when veiled by partiality, gilded over by the excus- 
ings of self-love, we avert our sight so pertinaciously 
from the survey of our secret character, with what emo- 
tions would a full, unbiassed view of every latent fault, 
each cherished vanity and unsuspected foible, fill our 
bosoms. But why, it may be enquired, disturb our- 
selves with this displeasing subject ? Effort has always 
been the price of enjoyment, and in no instance is it 
more abundantly repaid, than when courageously per- 
severing, we dare to search out, and look our errors in 
the face, — the great step towards correcting them. A 
mind in vigilant exertion, thought well disciplined, 
and a generous zeal for truth, are some of the golden 
fruits to be reaped from intimate self-acquaintance. 
Whoever wishes to form a consistent character — who- 
ever wishes for true and lasting pleasure, must culti- 
vate the habit — I had almost said the science — of re- 
flection ; — not the passing thoughtfulness of an idle, or 
a sad moment — not the careless retrospect of the past, 
in which we lightly skim over by-gone events ; but 
that deep persevering meditation — that impartial spirit 
of investigation, into motive and character, which nev- 
er fails to establish the mind, to strengthen virtue, and 
invigorate every right resolution. An ancient writer 



35 

has said that, " a man is seldom or ever unhappy for 
not knowing the thoughts of others, but he that does 
not attend to the motions of his own, is certainly miser- 
able." 

It is surprising how much the generality of men live 
at random ; destitute of any fixed principle — any pur- 
posed end of life, they become the sport of impulse, and 
are ever seeking to satisfy the natural cravings of the 
soul with petty excitements, or they wander listless 
through the w T orld, complaining that all is barrenness. 
Surprising indeed, that a being, who feels the immortal 
principle glowing within him, who is conscious of such 
ardent graspings for some indefinite good, should not 
pause often amid lesser cares of life, — break through 
their thraldom, and analyse himself. Strange, that a 
creature of two worlds, the inheritor of such destinies, 
should slumber over his prospects ; — that, encircled as 
he is by mysteries, the more solemn secrets of futurity 
impending over him, he should feel so little curiosity to 
explore, or desire to contemplate them. When we 
consider the important truth, that the character we 
now form, we will take with us into another state of 
existence, we must be convinced of the necessity of as- 
certaining w r ell what is that character. Do we desire 
to know what we shall be through countless ages ? 
Let us know ourselves now. Are we yielding submis- 



36 

sion to unworthy appetites or malignant passions, — let 
us be assured that "they will tyrannize over us forever. 
We are forging chains that eternity will rivet. But if 
virtue be enthroned in our hearts, — if, reverencing con- 
science, we obey its dictates, — if the blessed flame of 
benevolence warm, — the influence of purity hallow our 
spirits, what an impulse does it give to every spring of 
action, that our happiness is not the evanescent gift of a 
capricious world, that these buds of goodness, struggling 
against the adverse atmosphere of this life, shall bloom 
and ripen in a more congenial state. Let it be observ- 
ed, too, that the habit of reflection, while it strengthens 
the powers of the mind, and brings us acquainted with 
that mysterious world which lies within us, whose ex- 
tent is commensurate only with the flight of thought, 
will give us insight into the workings of the hearts of 
others, and afford us that knowledge which turns to the 
best account. We shall the better judge when and 
where to trust our fellows — have more sympathy with 
their infirmities, and more forbearance towards their 
faults. 

The benefit of often conversing with our past hours, 
and listening to the answers they give, of being on 
terms of intimacy with our own hearts — not strangers 
where we are most concerned, will be valuable, not on- 
ly amid the clashings of life, but will assist us in con- 



37 

templating its end. It is the uncertainty of the future 
which helps to render death terrible. Self- acquaintance 
will dispel that doubt in a great degree. 

" Dying is nothing — but 'tis this we fear — 

To be — we know not what — we know not where." 

The unknown world must be a fearful one. It is al- 
so an unconsidered scene ; and there will be anxieties 
enough to weigh upon our spirits, when we "walk 
thoughtful on the silent solemn shore of that vast ocean, 
we must sail so soon," without adding, by wilful self- 
ignorance, the gloom of doubt and distrust to the so- 
lemnities of the hour. 






38 



LET US LOVE ONE ANOTHER. 

It was a beautiful idea of the ancients to venerate 
the lightning-scathed tree, blasted not by the common 
decay of nature, but by the thunderbolt of heaven. 
Something akin to this sentiment, is the feeling we ac- 
knowledge towards those who have endured remarkable 
calamities, or whose happiness has been interrupted by 
a sudden stroke of affliction. Aside from the general 
sensations of pity, and the more delicate one of sympa- 
thy, there is that in deep sorrow which awes the be- 
holder, and commands the respect of the most unfeel- 
ing. An every-day acquaintance, whose mental or 
personal qualities have excited no uncommon interest, 
will, if arrested by sudden misfortune, become an ob- 
ject of thrilling emotion, and be regarded with a ten- 
derness and delicacy which no factitious advantages of 
rank or wealth could inspire. In truth, so mixed are all 
our feelings, and so strongly are selfish considerations in- 
terwoven in our minds, that we cannot look upon the af- 



39 

fliction of another with total unconcern ; the springs 
which awake to pain in the bosom of a fellow being, 
are sensitive and trembling in our own. We bear 
with us through life a fearful consciousness of expos- 
edness to danger, which readily takes alarm when we 
see it overwhelming others ; frequently too the view of 
grief, opens afresh wounds perhaps but partially closed, 
and the heart, while it is touched by the sorrow of a 
friend, is pierced by the recollection of its own pangs. 
Thus are we fellow travellers and fellow sufferers, inti- 
mately linked together by numerous and delicate bonds, 
by sympathies which we cannot entirely untwine from 
our hearts if we would, and by emotions which power- 
fully declare to us, " ye are all brethren." And thus is 
a fund of kindness laid up as it were in each man's 
heart, wherewith to cheer a suffering brother a be- 
nevolent arrangement, that the least amiable feelings 
of our nature, should be so directed as, joined to better 
principles, to be made subservient to mutual comfort, 
that our very self-love should prompt sympathy and 
respect for sorrow. For were w T e dependent for conso- 
latory offices upon principle and the cold sense of duty 
alone, what miserable comforters would they prove; 
who has not writhed beneath well-meant but common- 
place condolence, what delicate mind but knows how 
cautiously even heart-felt sympathy must approach the 
sacredness of unfeigned grief. 



40 

Poetry has availed itself of this sentiment, with great 
pathos and effect. When Constance, in the tempest 
of her grief exclaims, as she throws herself upon the 
earth, " this is my throne, let kings come bow to it," 
the artificial dignity of sceptres and courts fades before 
the natural majesty of a mother's anguish. What a 
solemn and tender image, embodied by the same poet, 
is the maniac father, weeping over the lifeless Corde- 
lia ; we forget that he is a king ; it is the breaking 
human heart that calls forth our intense and reveren- 
tial compassion. Suffering is always unpleasant to our 
nature, and an ungrateful spectacle to the eye; we 
shudder over physical torture in others, and recoil from 
its touch ourselves, but the sensations which this spe- 
cies of suffering awake, are those of unmingled pity, 
such as are excited in the crowd who melt into compas- 
sion for the malefactor on the scaffold, whom they ex- 
ecrated but a short time before. It is mental anguish 
which is peculiarly invested with solemnity, it is the 
" grief which kills the heart," which attracts our deep- 
est and warmest sympathy. W T hether it be caused by 
outward bereavement, by the death, or worse, the trea- 
chery of those in whom we had unwisely garnered all 
our hopes ; whether it proceed from the conflict be- 
tween conscience and passion, a contest which some- 
times convulses the intellectual frame from harassing 



41 

perplexities, the pangs of self-condemnation, or from 
the forebodings of an undefined but fearful doom, those 
sharp arrows which He who formed and knows the 
heart, alone can direct, alone withdraw. In each in- 
stance the sufferings of the mind are solemn to witness, 
appalling to endure. The dignity and interest which 
characterise the emotions of that sensitive, mysterious 
intelligence termed the soul, exalts our conceptions of 
its nature. Beautiful is the formation of the human 
frame, skilfully arranged are its various adaptations 
and surprising all the provisions of organic life, but 
what are they compared to the sublimity of the soul, 
whether we view its origin, its nature, or its ultimate 
destiny. Fair, indeed, the temple, and noble its pro- 
portions, but more superior the spirit for whose service 
it was formed. All admirable as it is, but a fabric of 
perishable materials, indebted to the ethereal essence 
of immortality which it enshrines for its true dignity 
and value. Another serious thought suggested by hu- 
man suffering is human helplessness \ powerless to avert 
the blow, unable to heal the wound it inflicts. Who 
has not been awed into humility and silence in the 
presence of sorrow 1 and what is the first emotion of the 
most insensible in such a situation % Is it not to wish 
to draw into the scene a superior power % perhaps nei- 



42 

ther by words or even in a definite petition in the mind, 
but the idea of one who alone can sustain in the hour 
of desolation, will force its way even into the heart 
that loves not to dwell upon that thought. Yes, not 
more deeply do we feel our weakness, when bending 
over some beloved being, whose fleeting breath we 
would give life to arrest, than when we vainly endea- 
vor to soothe the agonies of grief, or calm the tumults of 
despair. When the waves of sorrow overwhelm the 
soul, it is not ours, either for our own relief or for that 
of others, to say with authority, " peace, be still." 
When experiencing affliction ourselves, or when ap- 
pointed to the mournful task of walking through dreary 
shades with sorrowing friends, we own our inefficiency-, 
we cannot but revert to Him whom even the turbulence 
of human passions obey, and feel that from thence 
alone effectual aid can be derived. But let us not over- 
look what is in our power, nor think we may not as- 
suage the pain which we cannot remove. Delicate sym- 
pathy, persevering kindness, the preciousness of these 
to the bereaved and desolate — dropping like balm on 
burning wounds — twice blessed, sweet to receive, ever 
grateful to remember. Have we experienced mental 
suffering, then do we appreciate their value, — has it 
been our rare destiny thus far to have escaped the grasp 



43 

of care, let us be prompt to accord our sympathy to 
others, so that when clouds gather round us, and the 
hour of darkness does come, we may not look for its 
support in vain. 



44 



THE PURPOSE OF LIFE. 

Said the Macedonian conqueror, " When we have 
arranged the affairs of Greece, we will subdue Persia, 
from thence we will pass to conquer all Asia, and then" 
— " what then," interrupted his friend, — " why then 
we will live." How often is the heart of man beguil- 
ed by dreams of the same nature, though not so extrava- 
gant as these. When we have amassed a fortune, 
completed some important scheme, then we will live ; 
alas, let us live now, live in the noblest sense of the 
word. For we know that life is not to be counted by 
its months and years, but by its actions and motives ; 
hence we must confess that to live to virtue, to useful- 
ness, in one word, to heaven, is all that is worth the 
name of life ; all adverse to this is guilt and degrada- 
tion, and moral death ; all below it is chagrin and dis- 
appointment. Sometimes, when the realities of eterni- 
ty come close home to our bosoms, when conscience, 
faithful to her trust, numbers a series of years which 



45 

have left no trace behind, years on whose memory is 
stamped this appalling sentence, given and lost ; we 
endeavor too sooth our monitor with reflections not un- 
like those of the ambitious monarch. " This is a sea- 
son of peculiar care and anxiety : when I shall have sur- 
mounted these difficulties, my mind will be more com- 
posed to think of duty — I feel the sacred claims of hea- 
ven upon me : when I shall have subdued this reigning 
passion, and drawn off my attention from the struggles 
of the world, then I will live." Vain hope ! new diffi- 
culties are ever in ambush around us, new passions and 
fresh desires are ready to supply the place of those we 
wish to extinguish ; if we postpone our return to duty 
and religion until the cares and perplexities of life shall 
give a pause, we shall find that interval only in the si- 
lence, perhaps the terrors, of a dying hour. Anxiety 
chases our steps to the very tomb : what folly then to 
delay to live till the influence of its near approach, be- 
gins to chill our spirits. Let us live now. Resolutions 
to good, virtuous aspirations may be evanescent ; they 
must be ineffectual, unless decision sets its seal upon 
them, and urge them into corresponding action. There 
are none without some end which they propose to them- 
selves, yet judging from their course, many are contented 
with an ignoble aim, which confers no elevation of 
mind; others there are on whom principle takes so 



46 

slight a hold, that like a vessel without a helm, they 
are driven by every gust of passion, and tossed by the 
waves of fluctuating impulse ; little hope is there of an 
honorable or even a safe termination to such an undi- 
rected course. When we consider well the object of 
life, and its solemn importance, we cannot but be urged 
so to shape our own plans as to secure to ourselves the 
greatest sum of good. Here, as in the fable of the 
Trojan prince, we shall find more than one candidate 
for our favor. Heaven condescends to invite to its 
friendship and its peace, the creature of its care. In 
what attractive kindness, what surpassing goodness and 
grace, its overtures are couched ; with what merciful 
forbearance and patience they are continued through 
our careless career ; let our hearts and the history of 
our past lives testify. 

The world too prefers its claims, urges its specious 
pleas, and displays its dazzling reward. We will do 
well, however, to examine these boasted rewards of 
earth ; they are confessedly uncertain, but setting that 
aside, how often does the world " keep its promise to 
the ear but break it to the hope." Let his ocean-girt 
grave tell of Napoleon's reward. " Is this the man that 
made the earth to tremble, that did shake kingdoms 1 
All the kings of the nations, even all of them lie in glo- 



47 

ry, every one in his own house, but thou art cast out 
like an abominable branch." 

Charles Fox proposed to his ambition three objects ; 
to be the most popular man in England, to marry the 
most beautiful woman, and to be prime Minister. 
Mark how the world paltered with his hopes. He liv- 
ed fifty-eight years, and was Premier nineteen months ; 
took to his bosom one whose beauty was unequalled, 
but whose name was not unsoiled by the breath of 
censure ; as to his popularity, look to his history, and 
read his reward in his struggles and defeats. " Alas," 
exclaimed the learned Grotius as he approached the 
verge of life, bending beneath literary honors, " I have 
been but a laborious trifler." But even when we re- 
ceive full justice at the hands of earth, when our re- 
ward contains all that it can give, it is unsatisfying. 
— When Newton heard of the death of a promising 
Mathematician, he said, " if that man had lived we 
should have known something," accounting his own 
immense acquisitions, his discoveries and his renown, as 
nothing. Let us then listen to the offers of ambition 
with informed judgments ; should wealth propose its 
golden rewards to allure us, let us be aware of the dan- 
ger, when having attained the object of our desires, we 
.ask for happiness of the treasures we have spent a life's 
energies to collect, they may answer to our dismay " it 



48 

is not in us." Applying this test to all the plans based 
upon anything below Heaven, we will have no hesita- 
tion where we ought to fix our deliberate choice. Let 
us not then be prisoners of earth, nor smother immortal 
fires in sordid and debasing habits, but remember we 
are 

" Winged by Heaven, 
To fly at infinite and reach it there, 
Where seraphs gather immortality, 
On Life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God." 



49 



BEAR AND FORBEAR. 

So undisciplined are our passions, unstable our best 
desires, and infirm our wisest purposes, that there is no 
virtue more difficult to attain or to preserve than con- 
sistency of character. It is comparatively easy to per- 
form one generous action ; but to persevere through 
every discouragement in a course of magnanimity, 
alone entitles us to the merit of consistency. To be 
moved by scenes of affliction, is amiable ; but to seek 
out those scenes, cheerfully to postpone personal con- 
venience, or even comfort, to alleviate the distress of 
others, this is the true temper of kindness. To forgive 
a great injury is indeed noble ; but to pass through so- 
ciety with that forbearing spirit, which sheds the peace 
of Heaven over every difficulty, and smooths life's many 
vexations, — not only to forgive, but to be slow to per- 
ceive offence, and ready to anticipate the offender's re- 
pentance, — this is the temper which is easy to be en- 
treated, which endureth all things. 



50 

The absence of this one virtue tarnishes the lustre of 
the others, and, indeed, goes far to destroy their value. 
Deficiency here also brings suspicion of our sincerity. 
Virtue moves with a firm and even pace : it is her 
counterfeit that shuffles and turns aside in her course. 
•We meet daily with characters in whom there is much 
to approve, much that gains our approbation ; but upon 
nearer inspection we discover that consistency, which, 
like a golden chain, should unite and sustain the seve- 
ral virtues in due proportions, is totally wanting. In 
such cases, we feel the same sensation of disappoint- 
ment as on viewing a painting, where the colouring is 
exquisite, but the design ungraceful ; or a statue, where 
beauty and deformity are unhappily mingled. Some 
possess energy and firmness, which carry them honor- 
ably through duty, and which commands respect, but 
their characters are not tempered with that gentleness 
which alone wins affection. In others, again, softness 
so much predominates, that while we cannot help lov- 
ing, we forget to respect them. It is the happy adjust- 
ment of different virtues, governed by high principle, 
and upheld by constancy of purpose, that form what 
we would call consistency. To obtain this rare quality 
should be the desire of every intelligent mind, who is 
at all awake to its influence here, or its accountability 
hereafter ; or who, rising above low ambition, would 



51 

exert the noblest gift of the Creator, a rational nature, 
to the noblest purpose — the benefit of others. For 
splendid isolated actions, have little weight, compared 
to unpretending but virtuous consistency. 

How often do we see men, in whom are to be found 
numerous virtues, destroying their moral influence by 
the indulgence of one weakness. Perhaps an unsub- 
dued temper, a censorious spirit, or an inordinate love 
of gain, mars their usefulness, and, canker-like, blights 
all their better qualities. How much of christian pro- 
fession is disgraced by this inattention to consistency ! 
For of all pitiable objects, the most impressive is an in- 
consistent christian. With Heaven on his lips, but his 
heart and hands filled with sordid interests ; bearing 
the name of a meek and lowly master, yet striving 
eagerly for earth's honors and reward ; now kneeling 
at the sacred altar, anon at mammon's shrine, — this is 
a sight, which, did sorrow enter Heaven, might sadden 
the spirit of an angel. 

We are apt to evince inconsistency, also, in the per- 
versity of our judgment, in most important concerns. 
Many imagine that they will merit the approbation of 
Heaven by services rendered in a manner, which they 
would neither venture to offer to the acceptance of their 
fellow men, nor accept themselves. Others, while they 
allow that their lives are not quite as they ought to be, 



52 

console themselves that at death they will repent, very 
consistently expecting, that after, by precept and ex- 
ample, spreading an evil influence through perhaps a 
lengthened term of years, the feigned or frightened de- 
votion of a closing hour will satisfy violated justice, or 
quell the upbraidings of an outraged conscience # . It is 
this, too, that gives rise to the complainings against 
destiny we so often hear. He who has devoted him- 
self to intellectual attainments, repines with an ill grace 
that fortune has not conferred her gifts upon him, while 
he was assiduously worshipping at the shrine of another 
idol. The man who, for the tumult of public life, and 
the strife of politics, exchanges the enjoyments of do- 
mestic peace, may not consistently murmur, if, in the 
decline of years, or having become useless, he is left 
like an unregarded wreck upon the shore. How fre- 
quently do we hear parents exclaim, in bitterness of 
spirit, when their children have become their dishonor, 
and wrung their hearts by their misconduct ! They 
will not fail to enumerate the care and tenderness la- 
vished upon them ; but if they have been fatally neg- 
lectful of their moral guidance, if they have sent them 
into the world unfortified by principle, unsheltered from 
temptation, and unblessed by prayer, why should they 
complain. That wretched parent may w T ell mourn over 
his profligate son, but surely he need not wonder at his 



53 

ruin, if he himself has been his forerunner in the career 
of vice. Consistency forbids him even to rebuke his 
erring child. 

We err in this respect, too, in our expectations from 
the world. Men are never wearied with inventing and 
exhausting new pleasures : they fly from one occupa- 
tion to another, and when all, in turn, are tried, pass 
sentence of insufficiency on all. But let us be consis- 
tent. When did the barren thistle yield refreshing 
fruit 1 when did the shallow fountains of earthly plea- 
rure allay the thirst of an eager, a consciously immor- 
tal spirit 1 



54 



THE PAST AND THE FUTURE. 

How much is to be done ? My hopes and fears 
Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge 
Look down — on what ? 

" Could I but retrace my steps through life, retain- 
ing my present experience, how many serious mistakes 
might I avoid ; in numerous instances, where passion 
betrayed me, should reason govern ; where prejudice 
misled, candor should be my guide ; how many omitted 
duties should be performed, the effects of how many er- 
rors be averted." " Were life to live again, how dif- 
ferent should the retrospect appear." 

Perhaps there is not a human being to whose heart, 
reflections like these have not come at some period of 
existence. There are none so entirely enwrapt in busi- 
ness, or drowned in thoughtless amusement, or besotted 
by criminal gratifications, as never to have one hour of 
self-communion : — never to cast a lingering look upon 
their devious path, or give one anxious thought towards 



55 

the uncertain way upon which still rests the shadow of 
futurity. But naturally as such reflections arise, they 
are as vain as they are specious. In general, they are 
deceitful emollients, which serve only slightly to heal 
the wounds which conscience in faithfulness inflicts. 
It is easy, when the excited feelings have had time to 
subside, to review a series of actions, and imagine how 
much more wisely they might have been conducted ; 
for, according to an old saying, after thoughts are best 
ones ; but, in truth, the same occasion would rouse the 
same passions ; in spite of experience and good resolu- 
tions, we would be likely to succumb to the same temp- 
tations which had conquered before, and thus furnish 
fresh materials for new self-reproach. 

In support of this assertion, we can cite as evidence, 
our own practice, and that of men in general. If in- 
deed we be candid in saying that were we to live again 
the years that are past, they should be applied to no- 
bler purposes, why do we not begin to live to-day. 
We need not supplicate that the lengthening shadow 
which points to life's meridian should be miraculously 
thrown backward ; we have yet a life before us, — un- 
certain, it is true, in its duration, but long enough to live 
to duty. We may not, — cannot resist the impetuous 
current which is hurrying us through time ; it were 
vain to sigh for the smooth waters of youth and inno- 



56 

cence which we have left behind ; but surely, prudence 
might teach us to crowd the brief space which remains, 
with works of such a nature, as shall not embitter our 
final review of life. Even though far advanced on our 
voyage, it is not too late to " put good works on board, 
and w T ait the wind that shortly wafts us into worlds un- 
known." That such is not the usual result of the re- 
views which men take from time to time, of life, is ob- 
vious. The alarmed bosom is stilled by half-formed 
resolves of reformation, by ineffectual regrets and cheap 
acknowledgements ; while warned by conscience, con- 
vinced by experience, the individual too often pursues 
the very course w T hich he has been deprecating, until 
awake at last too late, he finds " his brittle bark is 
burst on Charon's shore." 

Many, many thus trifle through life, childishly play- 
ing w T ith opportunities which may never return, and in- 
dulging that maddest of all folly, to reject the claims 
of duty, even when their force is deeply felt — to say to- 
morrow, when Heaven and conscience say, to-day. 
How common is it to hear such persons confessing their 
past uselessness and errors, with every appearance of 
sincerity but one — that of beginning to amend. It is 
then a poor deception we put upon ourselves, when we 
rest upon the desire of being virtuous without striving 
actually to be so ; it is a fallacious hope that soothes 



57 

us with the expectation that we shall become, at some 
future period, what we are not willing to be at present. 
The future, — alas ! what a frail support to creatures of 
a day ; how many unfulfilled resolutions, disappointed 
hopes, obliterated promises, are written on its uncer- 
tainty ! With what presumption does man reckon on 
the coming hour ? It never has been promised him. 
Of all the minutes which compose the ages of time's 
duration, the only one over which we have control, 
is the one that waits upon us now. The use of time, 
the instant wise employment of its moments, is the 
only means of making it a blessing. Abused, or 
wasted, it becomes a source of anguish, painful to re- 
vert to, fearful to anticipate. 

Should we, then, in an hour of solemn retirement, 
reflect upon the irretrievable past, when its errors rise 
painfully upon the memory, casting a gloom over the 
future, when reason, coinciding with our bosom monitor, 
bids us pause, — when the dissatisfied spirit recoils as it 
surveys its responsibilities and omissions, let us beware 
how we trust to any mere resolve, however sincere w T e 
may be in its formation. Whatever may be the cause 
of our anxiety, whether guilt of external conduct, or 
the consciousness of that perilous stuff which weighs 
upon the heart, let us not lull our thoughts into the 
dangerous dream of what we would have done, or 



58 

what we intend to do. The most solemn resolutions 
formed in secret, may fade ft om our minds amid the 
bustle of life, or melt beneath the solicitations to evil 
which crowd around us. A good resolve once broken, 
is seldom renewed with constancy ; the very fact of our 
unfaithfulness, will make it an unpleasant subject to 
our thoughts, and its impression will wear away, leav- 
ing the heart less susceptible than before, or it may 
float upon the memory, a displeasing vision, sufficiently 
terrible to affright, but of no power to benefit. Let us 
not with self-condemned folly, " resolve and re-resolve,, 
then die the same." 



59 



THE HEATHEN'S AMD THE CHRISTIAN'S GOD. 

■. A Roman Emperor condescended to offer to the name 
of the Messiah, a place among the Gods of his empire. 
One might infer from the conversation of educated 
christians, that they had reciprocated the compliment, 
and erected altars to Fortune, Nature and Fate. There 
is a species of heathenism prevalent in society, which, 
whether it arise from unbelief or inaccuracy of speech, 
sounds very inconsistent, as used by those who compose 
w T hat is called the Christian world. Men talk, and 
even write of the course of nature, the laws of nature, 
the gifts of nature, in such an indefinite manner, as to 
suggest the doubt, whether their thoughts do not really 
terminate on the instrumental process, by which the 
Creator propels the universe, rather than upon his al- 
mighty power itself. We reflect so little, or so lightly 
on this subject, as to forget that all the secondary 
agents, to which we are so prone to limit our views, 
are indeed only used for our benefit ; natural causes, as 



60 

we term them, enabling us to know on what to depend, 
and how to govern or direct our measures, for the ac- 
complishment of any proposed end. The supreme mind 
acts by instruments of choice, not of necessity, these 
assisting not the " governor, but the governed." Hence 
what is styled the course of nature is but the method, 
order, and constancy of events, provided and upheld by 
one great presiding intellect ; but it is evident that in 
contemplating the mechanical arrangement by which 
the affairs of the world are conducted, we often lose 
sight of that power which fills immensity. It is nothing 
uncommon to hear men complain of Fate, and accuse 
Fortune of injustice, in the same language which the 
worshippers of those imaginary deities might have em- » 
ployed two thousand years ago. Such expressions 
either mean nothing,. or they mean the highest impiety. 
Those who are fond of using them would not feel flat- 
tered, were they to be assimilated to the rabble who 
once cried out, " Great is Diana of Ephesus !" and yet 
they cannot escape the charge of such absurdity, but by 
incurring the guilt of reflecting upon the appointments 
of God — an arrogance and ingratitude, at which our 
nature, wayward as it is, instinctively recoils. How 
often do we, when emerging from perplexities, the re- 
sults of misconduct or rashness, wind up our reflections 
and soothe our mortifications, by the thought, " it was 



61 

to be so" — shifting from ourselves the weight of blame, 
and throwing it, where 1 — on fate ; that is to say, on 
Heaven. In our presumption, we charge our Maker 
with the effects of our own folly ; in our perverseness, 
we seem to require of Him a restraining power, in ad- 
dition to the lights of reason, conscience, and revela- 
tion. How insufficient we ourselves could consider 
such a plea, offered by any under our authority as an 
excuse for insubordination or unfaithfulness, a moment's 
thought will convince us. 

Some persons have an odd jumble of Christian and 
Pagan ideas ; they converse as you might suppose a 
newly enlightened heathen would do — employing the 
term Providence, but evidently thinking about fate or 
chance — evidently, because was the superintending 
power of Deity present to their minds, that thought 
could not fail to teach their lips reverence. It is super- 
ficial to urge, that these are mere terms of parlance, 
springing from recollections of ancient mythologies, 
whose allusions have become familiar to a proverb in 
our language. It is to be feared that the cause is deep- 
er, and of a more serious nature. An inspired pen has 
preferred an accusation against our whole race, that 
men do not like to retain God in all their thoughts, and 
I believe there is no thoughtful or candid man but will 
attest to its justice. The admission of His constant 



62 

proximity is an irksome restraint upon our passions ; 
the thought of his overruling power galls our self-suf- 
ficiency ; the truth that the regards of infinite holiness 
are intently fixed upon us, is adverse to that freedom 
■which we desire ; and we endeavor to escape it by 
holding up these secondary causes, as a kind of screen 
to hide us from the scrutiny we know we cannot endure. 
These assertions do not soothe our self-love ; but their 
unpleasantness does not detract from their reality. 
The approbation of men is not the test of truth. Preju- 
dice may blind us, folly lead us to cavil, or pride to 
sneer, nevertheless, truth remains immutable. The 
most noisy opposition cannot move its decrees ; the 
most refined sophistry cannot evade or alter them ; w^e 
may exclaim against them — we have the pow T er to re- 
bel, and to persist contumaciously in our resistance, but 
as easily might our puny efforts shake the arch of hea- 
ven, as unloose the sacred strictness of the laws of 
truth. 

The heathen world did not thus deny or dislike the 
divine cognizance : for every quality of the mind, and 
every occasion of life, they had an appropriate Deity, 
to whom they had recourse in the hour of need, and 
whose interference they acknowledged and invoked. 
Was then that generation more docile and humble than 
the present ? No, they invoked gods like themselves, 



63 

deities whose impure histories 5 as sung by their poets, 
made the most virtuous of their sages tremble, lest they 
should pollute the minds of their youth. When they 
hung their votive gifts on Fortune's shrine, or bowed 
the deprecating knee to the dread trio, on whom, as 
they believed, depended their good or evil destiny; 
their thoughts came not in contact with the idea of 
omniscience, justice and unspotted purity. They indeed 
invested their deities with power, and some of them 
with virtue, but a being of perfect holiness was not re- 
vealed to their perceptions— or they had shrunk from 
his supervision as promptly, and denied it as eagerly as 
do many in the present age. Can we deny, ought we 
not to give it very serious thought, that it is because 
the law which should govern us is so strict upon the in- 
ward desires, the secret movements of the heart, that we 
feel disgust for its requisitions, that we reject its claim, 
that we wish to elude the authority of its august framer. 
But if it be granted that many who express them- 
selves in this reprehensible manner, are merely influ- 
enced by habit or thoughtlessness, if they might say 
with the Hindoo, who, being rebuked for praying be- 
fore a statue, replied, " I see God beyond the image," 
let them be more consistent than the pagan, and cease 
to invoke what they confess to be a name. For the 
manner in which we permit ourselves to converse upon 



64 

important subjects is not a matter of indifference. Ev- 
ery one knows the force with which the law of associa- 
tion acts upon the mind ; that by it good or evil habits 
are eventually formed, and as words are the signs of ideas, 
that which we are accustomed to speak of lightly, will 
soon cease to command our respect : • it is therefore ne- 
cessary for those who aim at the exaltation of their 
character to speak, as well as think definitely. If, then, 
we believe that the Supreme Being orders our way, 
protects our lives, and surveys our actions, let us not be 
ashamed to avow it ; let us cease to degrade or veil his 
dignity w T ith the trappings of exploded superstitions. 
But if we disclaim the divine authority, and throwing 
from us the strongest prop of suffering humanity ; if 
with the Epicurean, we think the Deity indifferent to 
the affairs of men, — that having the power, he has not 
the inclination to superintend the destinies of a world 
of beings whom he put forth an energy to create ; — if 
we hold this cold belief to our hearts, and commit our- 
selves to chance, we may not complain if she be capri- 
cious, nor quarrel w T ith our guide, should she lead us in 
a devious path. Having excluded the light of Heaven 
from our course, let us not wonder if our way be dark, 
and the events of life inexplicable 5 we have dispos- 
sessed the Judge of the earth from his throne, we may 
not murmur if to our view all is anarchy, oppression 
and misrule. 



65 



INFANCY 



Many are the springs of affection and pleasure which 
the hand of the beneficent Creator has opened in our 
bosoms, but none more pure than that tenderness to- 
wards children, which seems spontaneous in our nature. 
The young of every animal is interesting, but around 
the infant offspring of man is thrown a nameless, but 
powerful attraction. " Dear is the helpless creature 
we defend." It is its trusting helplessness that endears 
it to us. — Who can behold the smiles of infancy un- 
touched, or listen to its wailings without sympathy ? 
Painters have delighted to pourtray its graceful atti- 
tudes ; its beauty and innocence have been the favorite 
themes of poetry ; but to the Christian, the considera- 
tions of taste are heightened into moral beauty. The 
simplicity and guilelessness of children convey to him 
an image of that surpassing purity, which more than 
all the glories of Heaven has won his affection ; that 
flickering flame of life, so often threatened, surrounded 



66 

by such various dangers, yet so wonderfully preserved, 
what does its contemplation inspire but a deeper trust 
in Him who careth for a sparrow 1 Above all, upon 
the countenance of the frail and helpless babe is traced 
the stamp of immortality ; humble is the garb the spi- 
rit wears, when it enters on its earthly sojourn, and 
many a taint will pass upon it, and storms shake, and 
sorrows sadden it, yet may not sin, nor care, nor strife, 
quench that ethereal spark, lighted by the power of the 
Everlasting. Disguised and feeble as it is, it is a 
transcript of his eternity. To Him it must return, 
whether after a long career, renewed, perfected and re- 
joicing, or debased and trembling , or, whether per- 
mitted to remain but a fleeting moment upon the earth. 
To those whom time and intercourse w r ith men have 
taught some bitter lessons of distrust, the sight of 
joyous childhood suggests thoughts at once serious and 
tender; its exquisite sense of present enjoyment, its 
recklessness of the future, and unconsciousness of dan- 
ger, form a strong contrast to the anxieties and caution 
of riper years. The happiness of youth impresses us 
more vividly, because experience makes us prophets, 
and to our informed perception the future casts its sha- 
dows before ! We know, but a little while, and those 
golden locks must be bleached by care; the smiles 
which chase each other over that cheerful countenance 



67 

shall fade away ; evil passions will cloud the open 
brow ; life's struggles will not spare it ; sickness and 
grief will furrow it ; — who, on the care-worn linea- 
ments or passion-stamped features of age, shall trace 
the serenity of childhood 1 These seem mournful 
presages, but 

" Where earth's children press, 
There must be thoughts of bitterness," 

And it is only by keeping in view the high des- 
tiny of man, when sorrow and change shall be 
over, that the heart learns strength to combat the 
realities, often stern ones too, which meet us as we 
pass the threshold of childhood. " Sweet the voice of 
children and their earliest words ;" they come to the 
wearied spirit like emollients to a fevered wound. 
Who has not felt that the caresses of infancy were in- 
deed "balm to hurt minds?" Men may, and do be- 
tray us ; the thoughts of childhood are innocent of 
guile. Men pour upon us the bitter floods of angry 
and malevolent passions ; the heart of infancy is pure 
and untroubled as consecrated fountains. With one 
all is mistrust and calculation ; with the other all is 
unreserve and confiding love. Let me then live much 
with children ; and when jaded by care, or embittered 
by disappointment, seek refreshment in the love, sim- 
plicity and tranquil joy, which are the blessed com- 



68 

panions o f early youth — early^ youth, for alas ! evil 
example and inherent imperfection, soon part that hap- 
py association, perhaps forever. 

If the smiles, the innocence, and numberless endear- 
ments of childhood are interesting, there is another 
view which we are often obliged to take, still more 
tender and sacred, — I allude to the death of infancy. 
The inanimate remains of an infant is to me an object 
inexpressibly solemn, awakening emotions grateful, yet 
humble, and pleasing. When we gaze on the lit- 
tle image of clay, illuminated by life for so brief a 
space, we dare not suppose that light extinct ; that 
the beautiful fabric was formed and inhabited by a liv- 
ing spirit, only to pass a few months or years in feeble- 
ness, then lie down forgotten in the clods of the val- 
ley. — Who shall charge his Maker with such improvi- 
dence of life ? Neither can we behold the unsoiled 
beauty of the dead, and repine that it was early snatched 
from earth's defilement. It is with no thought of 
terror we approach the infant hushed to sleep in the 
arms of death ; the transition from his harmless life 
here, to his happy existence above, is so natural that 
our affections leap the intervening grave, and repose 
on scenes solemnly soothing to the soul. Nor can we 
indulge grief in its bitterness, even over the grave 



69 

which writes us childless ; we may not weep for such 
" scattered blossoms," if 

u Like buds rent off before the blast, 
On the cold ground they lie, 
They shall be flowers, in Heaven's bright bowers, 
Where never storm sweeps by." 

In the retrospect of man's existence there is much to 
lament, enough to alarm ; fierce, terrible are the con- 
flicts we sometimes experience, when bending over the 
dead, struck down in the midst of the hurry and guilt 
of life ; but the course of childhood, — so short, so se- 
rene, leaves nothing to inflict a pang. Children die 
like the rose, blighted it is true in the bud, but wet 
with the dews of Heaven; cut off untimely from the 
parent stem, but spared the slow and sure decay, placed 
beyond the reach of storm or the grasp of the spoiler, 
whose rudeness plucks the flower to pieces, and scatters 
it to the sport of restless winds. 



70 



SELF LOVE. 



Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us, 
To see ourselves as others see us. 



It was a beautiful remark of Burke, that our friends 
always think more of us than we do of ourselves. Its 
beauty consists not in any peculiar grace of expression, 
but in betraying his own modesty, even while sensible 
of the approbation which his merit elicited. It may 
be doubted, however, whether this observation can be 
applied to men in general. It would approach nearer 
to the truth to say, that we not only think more of our- 
selves than our friends do, but than we do of them. 

There is a principle of self-love implanted in our na- 
ture, which is essential to our well-being, and hence a 
species of selfishness justifiable, if not even necessary. 
That course of action or set of opinions which we have 
reflected upon and adopted as the best in our judgment, 
becomes identified with ourselves, and is looked on with 
partial regards ; when we bestow pains and labor upon 



71 

any effort of taste or science, we view it as the work 
of our own creation, and it finds great favor in our af- 
fections; all this, though evidently proceeding from 
selfish considerations, is natural and allowable. But, 
conceding to this provision of our constitution all its 
reasonable claims, we shall perceive that self-love and 
self-esteem do engross altogether too much of the affec- 
tions, which they should justly share in a reasonable 
degree. 

There is, indeed, a wide difference between self-love 
and self-esteem ; our comfort and interest are unavoid- 
ably dear to us, and we are often conscious of loving 
ourselves and preferring eagerly our own happiness, at 
the same time ; when pierced with a sense of unwor- 
thiness, or mortified by the recollection of errors, our 
estimation of our merit is very humble. An acute wri- 
ter has said, that while we should love our neighbor as 
ourselves, we should also endeavor to love ourselves as 
our neighbor — that is, pass upon our own faults and 
virtues, the same dispassionate and impartial verdict 
which we would on those of another. This is a diffi- 
cult attainment, but a height in morals which may be 
reached, and without which there can be no real dig- 
nity of mind. The power of truly appreciating our 
own good and evil qualities, is the only foundation on 
which we may hope to rear the fabric of a consistent 



72 

and elevated character. Its importance in what is 
called success in life, is great ; but when we look upon 
the bearing which it has on those prospects beyond the 
limit of time, before whose magnitude the gewgaws of 
life seem like the toys and rattles of children, its value 
is immeasurably enhanced. 

It requires a correct estimate of talent to excite or 
sustain a great effort — to inspire that self-confidence, 
without which the finest energies would avail nothing 
in the hour of test, the trial of sudden emergency, or 
under the mistaken judgment of others. When Sheri- 
dan had made his first speech in parliament, he asked 
the opinion of the speaker of the house, who told him 
that he would never be an orator. Sheridan replied, 
placing his hand upon his heart, " I feel it here !" 
and the result evinced that he did not indulge a vain 
boast. Had the hand of Milton trembled when he 
struck the sacred harp from whence he drew immortal 
melody, our language had wanted an imperishable tri- 
umph. On the other side, it is the exaggeration of 
self-esteem, and blindness to defect, which has caused 
such inequalities in the character of men of genius : — 
we see them alternately astonishing the world by their 
productions, and disgusting it by their egotism. 

But not alone to genius is this petty but annoying 
exhibition of selfishness confined : would it were — the 



73 

compensation might perhaps then make some amends 
for the evil. It seems the very inheritance of the dull 
and unthinking. When a man knows not what to talk 
of, it is a hundred chances to one that he speaks of 
himself; it is thus so many good sort of people are un- 
consciously intruding on their acquaintance personal 
concerns and domestic details, wholly uninteresting 
save to their own feelings. It is very observable to see 
two magnates of this class meet, how their peculiarities 
clash and strive for the mastery ; nor are their subse- 
quent criticism on the failings of each other the least 
pitiable trait of the blinding influence of egotism. It 
is one effect of this vice to divest the heart of generous 
sympathy ; making every occurrence in the various re- 
lations of society to be regarded with interest only as 
reflecting upon self. Is a friend successful 1 If his 
good fortune is remotely connected with my line of bu- 
siness, a selfish regret clouds the pleasure with which 
I feel I ought to regard it ; is another involved in some 
fatal error or disreputable folly, I feel a laudable sor- 
row, but was he one whom I introduced to notice, had 
I compromised my sagacity in predicting his future ex- 
cellence ? How does mortified vanity quicken my re- 
grets into virtuous indignation, and lead to exculpatory 
expressions of astonishment. How coldly we declaim 
against the vicious in general, how warm do we be- 

H 



74 

come, when they touch us in our interest or happiness. 
How calmly we bear the sorrows of a friend ; how we 
recoil and tremble beneath affliction ourselves. Ego- 
tism also produces by direct consequence, a censorious 
habit of mind. The image of beloved self, is so contin- 
ually before the mental perception, that we cannot dis- 
cern the good that is in those around us. It would ap- 
pear, that in proportion as we are ignorant of our own 
failings, we become sharp-sighted to the errors of our 
neighbor. " Every man," say the ancients, " carries 
a wallet or two bags with him ; the one hanging be- 
fore him, and the other behind him ; into that before, 
he puts the faults of others ; into that behind, his own ; 
by which means he never sees his own failings, while 
he has those of others always before his eyes." It is 
the part of reflection and self knowledge to reverse the 
image, and to lead to a strict survey of our own infirm- 
ities, and we may be assured that while engaged in this 
task, we shall have little time or disposition to analyze 
with the dissecting knife of ill nature, the character of 
our fellow beings. 

In order to correct a failing so fertile in bad results, 
we should spare neither energy nor self-denial. It is an 
excellent rule, although an old one, never, or very rare- 
ly to speak of ourselves ; and in directing the train of 
our thoughts, we should follow the scriptural counsel 



75 

to look at the concerns of others, not always to dwell 
upon considerations exclusively selfish. It is useful to 
endeavor to see ourselves with the eyes of others, but, 
above all, we should cultivate the habitual sentiment, 
that we are seen, and that without any disguise, by the 
eye of Omniscience, for a consciousness of our insignifi- 
cance in his view, will give us a clearer apprehension 
of the claims which we really have upon the esteem of 
men. We truly are, what we are in the sight of our 
impartial Judge, not what we may be pronounced by 
the mistaken affection, the erring judgment, or the ma- 
levolence of the world. 



76 



THE OPENING YEAR. 

Last week, we took a hasty retrospect of the past 
year, reviewed its struggles and vicissitudes, its griefs 
and joys, and bade it farewell, with something of the 
feeling, with which we part from a tried friend, who, 
though sometimes severe, has often been kind, and 
whom long intimacy has endeared to our affection. 

We now stand on the threshold of another of those 
portions of time, in which it has been man's wisdom to 
subdivide his fleeting term. If the remembrance of the 
past is invested with solemn and tender recollections, the 
prospect of the future awakens reflections, different, in- 
deed, in character, but equally thrilling in interest. 
While we feel that we are only pensioners of an hour, 
forming but a small part of an innumerable crowd, 
who are hurrying through the scene of existence, yet 
does a noble consciousness proclaim to us, that we are 
heirs of eternity. Amidst life's cares and errors, agitated 
by its conflicts, and almost dismayed by the swiftness 



77 

with which we feel ourselves borne on by its current, a 
feeling within us, which cannot be repressed, assures us 
that " it is not all of life to live," and surrounded as we 
are by frailty and decay, claim a being without end. 
Yet when we look towards that futurity, to which man's 
heart is set, by " secret and inviolable springs," what 
darkness rests upon it, what an impenetrable cloud hides 
to-morrow from our anxious glance. One of the most 
amazing attributes of deity, one that overwhelms the 
mind, is that of prescience : when our limited power 
would strive to fathom the abyss of knowledge, we 
shrink back in a humbled sense of the weakness of hu- 
manity. 

We need not, however, repine at our blindness to 
the future, but should rather consider it as a great alle- 
viation of our destiny j for since we are not the arbi- 
ters of our lot in life, to foresee what we could not pre- 
vent, would be a misfortune beyond aggravation. Sup- 
pose it possible, that each individual who reads these 
lines, could behold in perspective, only the pleasures 
which await his enjoyments for the year to come ; how 
would the anticipation and the certainty, rob them of 
half their zest ; he would be cloyed, ere he was in ac- 
tual possession. But could the friendly veil be drawn 
aside, which conceals approaching evils, were it ours to 
number the pangs of disappointment, the embarrass- 



78 

ments of business, the varied sufferings which, it may 
be, are in reserve for us, with what discouragement 
would we proceed to the discharge of duty ; the dread 
of impending ill, would absorb the sense of present joy, 
and life would be deprived of one grand spur to enter- 
prize. 

Although we are fully aware of the uncertainty of 
existence, and must admit that it is not improbable, 
that the sun which shall shine upon the closing day of 
this year may have long ceased to gladden our eyes 
with his beams, yet, should some prophetic voice warn 
us, " this year thou must die," what a damp would such 
an intimation throw upon every effort ; we should feel 
ourselves — nay, we should be, doomed men ; all indeed 
are sentenced, but ours would be the unblest privilege to 
read that fatal mandate. The voices of friends would 
sound like knells to our ears ; all nature to our sadden- 
ed view, would wear a shroud ; desire would cease, 
hope be extinct, and every object disappear, before the 
appalling and dark image of an open and a near grave. 

Wisely, mercifully, then, it is arranged in man's 
economy, that he should be left unknowing of future 
events, while by the aid of experience and revelation, 
light is afforded, sufficient to arouse his best energies. 
It is this uncertainty which envelopes the future, that 
stimulates the two great motives and encouragements of 



79 

man, expectation and hope. The ancients represented 
hope, weeping over the tomb, with her torch inverted 
and its flame extinguished, intimating their fear, that 
she left man forever, when he entered its dreary pre- 
cincts ; an affecting illustration of that which is sup- 
ported by earthly props. But there is a hope, heaven 
born, which, while it attends and supports our steps 
through the weariness of life, deserts us not at its close : 
far otherwise, her torch emits a brighter radiance, as the 
flame of existence diminishes, trembles, and expires, 
While time rises in prospect before us, it is hope like 
this, that will urge and sustain, through our various ef- 
forts. This occasion seems peculiarly appropriate for 
surveying the situation in which we are placed, of num- 
bering the talents entrusted to our care, of carefully as- 
certaining the responsibilities which rest upon us, and 
of drawing out, as it were, a chart, for the direction of 
our moral course. We know not,, it is true, what ad- 
verse tempests we may encounter, or to what strange 
seas we may be driven, but we do know that truth is 
eternal and the same, and making that our pole-star we 
need not fear a storm so dark, as to altogether intercept 
her light. 

We have commenced a fresh stage in our mortal 
journey, looking forward to new scenes of action ; in- 
structed by the past, supported and urged by hope, be- 



80 

ing in a very great measure, the formers of our own 
characters, with rewards proposed to our attainment, of 
a value commensurate with the dignity and worth of im- 
mortal spirits, there would seem to be no motive wanting 
to incite to virtue and excellence. If awake to regret- 
ted errors, conscious that life has been vain or selfish, or 
frittered away in uselessness, or blotted with guilt, so 
that we avert our eyes from the unpleasant retrospect, 
and sigh for permission to live it over again. — Behold, 
the wish is granted : time and opportunity anew is 
conferred. It is in our power to render this undeserved 
gift, a blessing of infinite value ; it also remains with 
us to add this aggravating sting, to the conscious abuse 
of time, that 

" We are poorer for the plenty poured ! 

More wretched for the clemencies of Heaven !." 



81 



VINDICTIVENESS. 

" Ninety and nine years have I borne with him, and 
couldst thou not have patience with him for one day V* 
Who can forget the beautiful apologue of Franklin, 
who remembers to exemplify its sublime moral in his 
daily practice. Pensioners on the bounty of heaven, 
ever encroaching on its forbearance, yet incessantly 
receiving tokens of its clemency, the asperity and in- 
tolerance which characterises the intercourse of men,, 
might excite astonishment, did not an insight of that 
mysterious element which we call the heart, diminish 
the wonder. It is a sad truth, that from the beginning, 
man's hand has been lifted against man ; when there 
were but two to call each other brother, discord sever- 
ed them ; and here that earth counts her children by 
millions, we behold every day a representative of that 
fatal scene, when pride and anger introduced death into 
the dwelling of our exiled forefather. Alas, Adam, 
little didst thou think that the corpse of Abel, and the 



82 

branded brow of his murderer, were but the first out- 
pourings of that bitterness, which should in some mea- 
sure corrode the hearts of all thy offspring. Of all, 
for in this matter we all offend. Where is he, who in 
the review of only one day, can ascertain that in no 
instance he has strained the bond of kindness, that he 
has not indulged in censoriousness, that he has made 
all allowance for a brother's faults, forborne with the 
perverse, pitied the erring, and, still more difficult, has 
withstood the desire of injuring an enemy, or when the 
tempting cup of revenge was proffered to his lips, has 
put it aside untasted. Yet to this we are required to 
attain ; this temper is an important item in that strict 
account which we must finally render. How little do 
we think of this in our conduct in society, how little 
do we regard the irreversible decrees of that approach- 
ing tribunal. Pride, selfishness, passion and thought- 
lessness, regulate our words and actions in apparent 
defiance of Him, who has said, that he shall have no 
mercy that showeth none — words, which while they 
exhibit the rule of judgment for eternity, are remarka- 
bly fulfilled in the events of time. Could we accu- 
rately separate the sorrows which proceed immediately 
from the Divine hand, from those inflicted by our fel- 
low beings, how startling would the sum of unkind- 
ness received from man, appear in comparison with 



83 

the leniency of God. When our own follies and er- 
rors had been awarded their due, and the severity of 
men rendered its full amount, there would seem little 
remaining to impute to the rigor of heaven; cheerless 
indeed would be our lot, did our Creator exercise to- 
wards us, that measure of intolerance which we are 
obliged to take at each others' hands. There are many 
ways by which we can afflict our neighbor. Slander 
is an overflowing spring of poison. Calumny, whose 
forked tongue, according to the Jewish Rabbins, in- 
flicts three injuries at once, harming the slanderer, the 
slandered, and the hearer of the malicious tale. Cen- 
soriousness, which though it invent not, gloats upon 
the faults of others, and delights to retail them. These 
are sharp weapons, and every one has felt how acutely 
they wound, yet too many of us go around with them 
habitually, and are ready to use them even unpro- 
voked. But still more to be deprecated is the love of 
retaliation, so fondly cherished, and which men do not 
hesitate openly to avow. Some writer has said, that 
there are three ways of conducting under ill treatment, 
one is to despise the injury, the second is to return it, 
and the last is to live in such a manner as to reprove 
our enemy. The first is usually but unsuccessfully ac- 
complished ; the last, is deemed, as it is, of difficult at- 
tainment ; while the second course, is the general prac- 



84 

tice. And yet, were men to be honest, they would con- 
fess that the draught mixed by revenge, is after all un- 
satisfying, sweet to the taste at first, but its flavor al- 
ways dashed with bitterness. It cannot but be so, 
" evil will not produce good ;" all the gentler quali- 
ties, which in their kindly and beneficial influences 
bear the impress of their great Giver, yield pleasure 
in proportion to their exercise. But He who breathed 
into man a living spirit, inspired not the demon re- 
venge ; that is a point, springing from the corrupted 
soil of a deteriorated nature : the growth of a poison- 
ous seed, nursed by the worst passions, yielding the 
deadly fruits of malice and hatred, how did it find its 
way to the bosom of man 1 We read not of noxious 
plants intruding among the flowers of Paradise ; it was 
when a banished criminal, that man was first pierced 
with thorns as he tilled the ground from which he was 
taken, and then, too, his nature partaking of the male- 
diction, began to exhibit dispositions only evil. Be- 
sides, what fierce anxieties do the revengeful experi- 
ence, while composing the gratification of their unhal- 
lowed desire through what windings and shuffling, 
must they often force their way ; and when at last their 
purpose is effected, does the spectacle even of an ene- 
my's downfall, repay the heart burnings and intrigues 
it has cost 1 Slander not the nature of man : evil as it 



85 

is, by affirming such a fact. Let him say, who, goaded 
by the severest provocation, has sought to allay the 
sense of injury in the blood of an enemy, who has 
pushed his enmity to the utmost boundary of existence, 
let him say, if gratified revenge is sweet. Men prompt- 
ly console themselves when vexed or injured by others 
with the thought of retaliation, nor does their practice 
fall short of their intentions ; thus life is spent in re- 
ceiving and returning offences, and in keeping open 
and irritating wounds, which a little forbearance would 
quickly heal ; thus, throughout society, however calm 
its surface may appear, there is a constant underplot, 
carried on by a little spirit of revenge. Men's opinions 
seem not so much to depend on intrinsic worth, as 
whether an individual has injured, or has the disposi- 
tion to injure them ; whether he be with, or against us, 
in the miserable feuds, with which we seek to agi- 
tate life. 

Sometimes, in a calm mood, we will listen to the ar- 
guments of reason, and feel the unworthiness of dispo- 
sitions like these ; perhaps, if there be no present ex- 
citement near, we may even persuade ourselves that 
we are convinced, and for an interval taste the refresh- 
ment which thoughts of peace breathe over the soul. 
But unless our hearts have been entirely cleansed from 
revengeful feelings, unless we have learned from One 



86 

who alone can teach and bestow the power to practice 
the heavenly precepts he urges, when offences come, 
and come they will, we shall find that we had only 
" scotched the snake, not killed it ;" it was but charmed 
into brief tranquillity, and its fangs are prepared at the 
touch of injury to return evil for evil. We have been 
required to do to others, as we would that they should 
do to us, but we often omit some of the command, and 
shaping it to our liking, we do towards our neighbor, 
as he does to us, or, rather, to speak out the truth, we 
act worse towards him, and more than repay ill treat- 
ment. For when anger calculates the amount of in- 
jury, be sure, there is nothing omitted; and when re- 
venge broods over it, and malice colors it, there is lit- 
tle doubt but all its enormity will be taken in account, 
and hence the rewards we return to those who offend 
us are usually seven fold. 



87 



THE BURIAL PLACE. 

There is no walk I so much prefer, or oftener seek, 
than that which leads to the spot, where, beneath the 
overshadowing pines, lie so many, whose hands used to 
clasp ours in friendship, or with whose joys and sorrows 
we were once identified. As you emerge from the lit- 
tle grove through which the path suddenly winds, the 
city of the dead meets the eye with peculiar solemnity. 
Many serious, but not painful reflections, occupied my 
mind during the hour I lately spent there, — nor is this 
an inappropriate season to visit the place of the dead. 
The general rejoicing of nature, in her annual resurrec- 
tion from the grave of winter, conveys soothing images 
to the heart, and seems to give a cheerful reply to that 
anxious question, " if a man die, shall he live again ?" 
The silence of the place was only broken by the distant 
hum of the city, and strangely did the noise and bustle 
of the living invade these sacred precincts. My thoughts 
reverted to former years, when the sleepers around me 



were animated with the hopes and cares of existence ; 
a little moment, and those, now so flushed with life, 
will be borne hither to repose beside them, and another 
race will take their places, and succeed to their anxie- 
ties and joys. And is this life 1 How dare we trifle 
it away with lavish waste, or spend its numbered mo- 
ments in unworthy pursuits 1 why should we delight to 
multiply the ties that bind us here, — to entwine our af- 
fections fondly around creatures so frail that they pe- 
rish in our embrace, while the most fervent love, the 
passionate entreaties of a breaking heart, cannot, for 
one moment, arrest their flight ? 

What a powerful appeal do these hillocks of earth 
make to the passions of men ! Come hither, ye whose 
hearts throb with hatred, or burn w T ith the unhallowed 
fires of revenge, — have you ever stood beside the grave 
of an enemy 1 — was it this piece of clay that excited 
such fierce emotions 1 How does the earth cover his 
failings, and his provocations are buried deep as his 
lifeless form. But not so our injurious thoughts, — our 
unkind actions ; they rise fast upon the memory, and 
bring with them the stinging reflection, that regrets 
are unavailing. Why then should we pursue with un- 
relenting anger, the being of a day, who to-morrow 
may lie down in dust ? To weep over the grave of a 
friend, is a precious luxury : the reciprocal kindnesses 



89 

which endeared us in life ; the remembrance of the last 
illness and the dying hour, the parting word of love, 
the lingering gaze, the solemn farewell embrace, — all 
these give rise to emotions inexpressibly soothing. 
Where rests a friend, there let me linger, and often re- 
new my visits, and receive fresh lessons of resignation ; 
— but lead me not to the tomb of him I have injured. 

As I walked around, I observed from the inscriptions 
on the stones, that the greater number of those whose 
memory they preserved, were young — very young to 
die. Many had been struck down in their prime, but 
most amid the early joys of life — like a rose fresh gath- 
ered 

" In the prime of its bloom 
Plucked off and withered." 

In a few instances, a whole family had been taken away 
at once. This seemed an enviable boon : when, the 
parents had been laid in the same grave, their unshel- 
tered lamb had been mercifully folded, and slept at 
their side. It is but a few years since our city became 
of note, — yet, see what a harvest death has already 
gathered in ! Might we but know the separate history 
of this dust, what scenes of care, recklessness, folly, 
crime, of unblest love, of unrewarded virtue, of humble 
goodness and unacknowledged worth, would pass be- 
fore us ! 



90 

Many a head has here been coldly and carelessly 
laid upon its earthly pillow, on which a mother's 
heart and tears rained blessings. Some, doubtless, had 
been born and nurtured in affluence, and their kindred 
lie together in stately mausoleums ; but these were wan- 
derers from their father's house, and in a far country, 
met their early fate — 

" but many shapes 
Of Death, and many are the ways that lead 
To his grim -cave all dismal !" 

Of what little importance to those who here are hid in 
the grave from the storms of life, are the circumstances 
of honor or poverty which marked their journey ! How 
vain their struggles and repinings, — how useless their 
anxious cares, — how fleeting their mirth, — how unsub- 
stantial all but virtue ! The bubbles we are so ea- 
gerly pursuing, were as earnestly sought after by these 
departed ones ; the same blindness, the same vain per- 
severance in the fruitless chase, — but here the difference 
— their time and opportunities have passed forever, — 
ours are passing. 

" Nor love thy life nor hate ; but what thou livest, 
Live well ;• — how long or short, permit to Heaven.'' 



91 



IMAGINATION. 

Few persons are aware how much they owe to ima- 
gination, a faculty of the mind which has always been 
regarded with distrust, and to restrain whose wander- 
ing, numerous rules have been imposed, rules at which, 
indeed, it too often laughs. Though serious evils may 
result from an undisciplined imagination, and the inju- 
dicious indulgence of its powers to the prejudice of our 
judgment, may convert what is, in itself, a refreshing 
cordial to an inebriating and poisonous draught, yet, in 
general, the power of fancy is a great embellisher of life. 
It is a powerful auxiliary to hope, coloring those agree- 
able visions which hope loves to believe, and winning 
the mind from gloomy contemplations. 

There are some dispositions of a melancholy temper- 
ament, who darken all their thoughts with sadness, 
and to such, the powers of fancy become a source 
of almost unmitigated evil ; but to most minds, the 



92 

Creator has given a desire to regard the circumstances 
of life under their brightest aspect, and imagination seems 
kindly bestowed, as wings to the soul, enabling it to 
soar above the petty difficulties and tiresome common- 
places of earth. This benevolent provision in man's 
constitution, must often impress those who interest 
themselves in the happiness of such of the human fami- 
ly as tread the paths of labor and obscurity. How does 
imagination lighten the toil of the humble slave in 
the pleasant pictures it draws before his mental vision, 
adding fresh glee to his rude melodies ! Nor should re- 
finement fastidiously sneer at the homely nature of his 
day dreams, but rather hail the cheering thought, that 
there are none so low in rank, or confined in intellect, 
that fancy does not deign to visit with her innocent ex- 
hilarations. Who will not own, what a relief to the 
most irksome employment are the thick coming fancies 
which beguile the mind ; how many an hour of pain is 
soothed by thoughts not of this world ! It is true, much 
of our irascibility is the effect of the magnifying power 
of fancy ; our wrongs are most imaginary, our quarrels 
the ferment of misconception, — but it is the same fac- 
ulty which heightens the delight we receive from re- 
ciprocated kindness, enhances the zest of social inter- 
course, and keeps us in happy blindness to the defects 
of those we love. Bitter would be the taste of life's 



93 

realities, did not the hand of fancy mingle sweets among 
them. 

What beauty, too, does imagination shed over our 
intellectual enjoyments, skilfully interweaving with her 
golden threads the most elaborate compositions ! — for 
not alone in poetry does 

" Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o r er, 
Scatter from her pictured urn 
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn" — 

it is hers to light up the abstruser speculations of phi- 
losophy, to make science winning, morality lovely, and 
attire religion in softer graces. 

This faculty is one of the principles whence spring* 
activity and improvement ; by leading us to the con- 
templation of more perfect characters, it excites the de- 
sire of imitation, and accelerates our course ; the very 
dissatisfaction which its bright exaggeration occasions, 
serving as a spur to the mind ; and while it elevates the 
thoughts from sordid objects, it is a wholesome correc- 
tive to mental indolence. Indeed, without the sunshine 
with which imagination, as it were, vivifies the soul, 
our thoughts would become stale as the dull weed which 
grows on Lethe's banks. 

Imagination is also the nurse of that poetic taste 
which seems natural to all, though not always equally 
developed. This taste is a deep and rich source of en- 



94 

joyment from earliest youth to age, — the lullabies of 
the cradle, the fables of childhood, the reveries of youth- 
ful fancy, all breathe into the soul the spirit of poetry. 
An image of poetic beauty, will often fix a moral truth 
indelibly in the memory ; the sublime mysteries of re- 
ligion become doubly impressive, clothed in the rich 
decorations of an elevated imagination ; and it is indeed 
as the handmaid of devotion, that this faculty appears 
most beautiful ; kindled at the altar of heaven, her 
flames burn with purer brilliancy, and ascend thither 
without a taint of earth. There is not a more pleasing 
effort of the fancy, than that of embodying scenes to 
the mental perception ; and by means of this power of 
grouping, which imagination possesses, converting de- 
scriptions of poetry or recollections of history into vi- 
vid existences. 

In one of the most simple yet romantic narratives, — 
one which poets have loved to dwell on, there is an 
image which never occurs to the mind alone — like some 
fairy spell it brings before the thoughts a sense of deep- 
est interest, — I mean that incident in the history of 
Ruth, when, trembling and a stranger, unprotected and 
sad, tt she stood among the alien corn and wept." How 
naturally do we follow her reflections upon former hap- 
piness, contrasted with her present desolation, and en- 
ter into the sickness of heart with which her spirit 



95 

yearned towards her father's land ! We feel the fear 
with which she regarded the approach of the passing 
reaper, the irresolution which made her step falter and 
her eye downcast — and what assurance and comfort do 
we imagine the kindness of her benefactor convey to 
to the heart of the beautiful stranger ! When thoughts 
like these fill the mind, our kindest feelings are unlock- 
ed, our finest sympathies elicited. Chaucer has de- 
scribed a scene, which though but a fiction of the poet, 
conveys pleasing images to the fancy, when Constance, 
the bride and the widow of an hour, is launched alone 
in her frail bark upon the deep. The picture of that 
" lovely mariner" buffeted by the tempestuous ocean, 
her prayers, her feeble efforts, her resignation and trust 
in heaven, rise before us with the distinctness of truth : 
so strong are the chains which fancy forges. Often 
when the comforts of the domestic hearth are height- 
ened by the terrors of a winter eve, does the image 
described by Thomson of the cottager perishing in the 
snow, occur to the mind ; we see him bewildered and 
spent, vainly combating the tempest, and at length, 
" stung with the thoughts of home," lying down to 
slumber for ever ; and, turning to the bright reality be- 
fore us, our hearts awake to gratitude. Surely, when 
imagination opens trains of thoughts like these, she 
improves as well as gratifies the mind. 



96 

But if we would enjoy the pleasures which spring 
from this important faculty, we must watchfully guard 
against its perversion. Especially should we be zea- 
lous of purity of thought : none but streams of bitter- 
ness can flow from a polluted fountain, nor can images 
of beauty or goodness visit that mind whose imagina- 
tion is tainted by the prevalence of debasing passions. 
We should be firm also in regulating the fancy : an 
excessive indulgence in works of fiction, or pursuits of 
taste, will unfit us for the severer duties which devolve 
upon us all. In passing through our mortal journey, 
we are freely permitted to cull the flowers which bloom 
around us, to taste their odors, and to appreciate their 
beauty ; but we may nof, with impunity, loiter among 
their sweets. Our day is short ; our sun is hastening 
towards its setting ; let us refresh our spirits with eve- 
ry innocent means of enjoyment, but let us use them 
as refreshments, not surfeit till we become enervated 
on what was given to cheer and strengthen. 



97 



THE WORLD'S EYE. 

Perhaps there is no one totally indifferent to the 
opinions of his fellow beings. Appointed as we are to 
a social condition, linked in mutual dependence, it 
would seem to be a part of the constitution of our na- 
ture to lean upon the sympathies of others, and seek 
the good will of those with whom we hold intercourse. 
Of what avail is wealth or knowledge to him, who 
among all his treasures cannot number that rarest one, 
a friend, — who pursues his solitary course unaiding 
and unaided, — whose death excites no pang of sor- 
row — whose memory lives in no one's gratitude, — is 
cherished in no one's affection ? 

" In the hour of death thine eyes longed for some 
object of affection, on which they might rest," is the 
beautiful complaint of the poet. But not only in life's 
last hour do we need the consolations of friendship ; 
through all its varied scenes of pleasure and pain we 
seek the presence of a friend. I would not die alone ; 
let my dying bed be surrounded with kind faces ; let 



the arm of affection support my sinking head, and the 
prayers and benedictions of the good, lend wings to 
my departing, trembling spirit. But neither would I 
live alone. Of all gifts I would earnestly covet the 
art of conciliating kindness. What is happiness un- 
shared ? Who can tell the bitterness of the grief 
which is sustained alone ? Such thoughts will awaken 
corresponding desires in every bosom ; and it is this 
principle, extending into a desire of the esteem of men, 
which has mingled with the motives, and made one of 
the incitements to honorable action in the bosoms of 
all good men. It is, too, a powerful restraint upon the 
vicious. Indeed, I know not but it may be traced to 
hypocrisy ; for it is to pass well with men that the 
most hardened hypocrite wears his mask. He is con- 
scious, and often trembles beneath that consciousness, 
that the eye of Omniscience detects him. Doubtless, 
this principle, operating in this manner, forms one of 
those numerous springs by which the Great Disposer 
of events controls the complicated machinery of soci- 
ety. In proportion as men become careless to the ap- 
probation of the world, they lose their hold on virtue ; 
and he has arrived at a melancholy degree of boldness, 
who can deliberately defy the censure of the commu- 
nity of which he is a member. The esteem of men is 
to be desired on its own account, but it is far more de- 



99 

sirable as affording the power of doing good — in giv- 
ing weight to every word and action, and influencing 
the hearts of others to receive salutary counsel and ad- 
monition. This sentiment, however, must be carefully 
distinguished from love of applause, and desire of men's 
admiration. The desire of esteem is a strong support 
to higher motives in rendering men benevolent, hono- 
rable and generous. The love of admiration fills the 
world with triflers, dandies, and puppets of fashion, 
male and female. The one tends to confirm habits of 
usefulness and virtue, the other leads to every species 
of vanity. 

We have been considering the love of praise as 
wisely regulated ; but there is a sensitiveness to repu- 
tation, which, when permitted the ascendancy, not only 
destroys the quiet of its possessor, but the dignity of 
his character. It apparently proceeds from a too ex- 
alted estimate of our own powers, — whence arises a 
continual jealousy, lest the world should not give that 
extravagant meed of applause which we claim as our 
due. 

The characters of two illustrious writers, who have 
now passed away from the earth, afford us striking 
illustrations of the subject. The reader will instantly 
revert to him who "touched his harp, and nations 
heard, entranced" — him, whose unhappy story furnishes 



100 

affecting evidence how little genius, dissevered from 
virtue, promotes the welfare of her most favored chil- 
dren. Of whom but Byron, could it be said that he 

" Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump 
Of fame ; drank early, deeply drank, drank draughts 
That common millions might have quenched, — 
Then died of thirst." 

The constant struggle in Byron's mind between 
pride, which deigned not to solicit praise, and a sensi- 
tiveness to applause, which rendered it necessary to his 
peace, is truly affecting. Conscious of his power, and 
of the transcendant genius that burned within him, he 
regarded the world with contemptuous superiority; 
and yet, upon the wavering breath of the world's ap- 
plause, did he place his dependence for happiness; 
and when that frailest of all supports, the capricious 
favor of man, forsook him, in the agonies of goaded 
pride, 

" His groanings filled the land his numbers filled, 
And yet he seemed ashamed to groan." 

Alas ! what havoc did undisciplined energies and mis- 
taken aims make of the choicest mental gifts the Crea- 
tor can bestow ! Behold, in the feverish, agitated, un- 
honored career of this brilliant mind, the devastations 
of unsubdued passions ; view him in his foreign grave, 



101 

shipwrecked in the midst of his course, the victim of 
misguided feelings and insatiable thirst of praise. 

What a contrast does the tranquil life of Scott pre- 
sent? The simplicity and modesty of his character 
invests him with a dignity, which the proudest assump- 
tion could never have obtained ; and the very circum- 
stance of his declining the highest distinctions, disposes 
us to award them to him. That he was sensibly alive 
to the value of a good name, and the world's esteem, 
the unwearied and heroic efforts of his later years nobly 
attest ; but, wiser than his cotemporary, he looked 
upon society with a good-humored philosophy, and, as 
he narrowly studied human character, its errors excited 
neither scorn nor bitterness ; while the virtues he dis- 
covered, called into pleased exercise all his philan- 
thropy. It is impossible to read the works of Scott, 
without feeling that he was a friend to man, and en- 
joyed the friendship of his fellow men. We cannot 
peruse Byron, without the impression that he deemed 
the world, and the world's law, against him. His bit- 
ter levity, his scornful raillery, do not deceive us ; we 
perceive that they are the outbreakings of mortified 
pride, not the exuberance of mischievous humor ; and 
however we may sympathise with r^ misfortunes, — and 
they were many, — or wonder at his genius, for it was 
resplendent, we cannot entertain for his character one 
sentiment of respect. 



102 



THE LAW OF KINDNESS. 

There is no complaint more common, than that of 
the ingratitude of men ; yet, if we reflect upon our 
motives and expectations, we shall find that this opinion 
is, in a great measure, unfounded. Whoever narrowly 
scrutinizes his intention in bestowing kindness on 
another, will perceive, that he is rarely urged by the 
sole consideration of his neighbor's benefit ; and, con- 
sequently, the just claim on his gratitude is not so great. 
It may be said, that the recipient of our kindness can- 
not know how far our secret motives sway us ; but we 
may be assured, that men are very quick sighted and 
exact in adjusting their claims on each other ; and it 
is a mournful confession, but I fear a true one, that 
when we receive a favor, we instantly look around for 
reasons to diminish the weight of the debt. So that, 
though none are aUe to discover our secret motive, yet 
by reviewing past oenefits which they may have ren- 
dered, or glancing at those which it is in their power 



103 

to confer, the obliged will put a tolerably fair estimate 
on the sum of gratitude they owe. So mixed indeed 
are all our motives, that the most beneficent actions are 
ever tarnished with some evil which alloys their purity, 
and the consciousness of this should silence our invec- 
tive against the ungrateful returns we may sometimes 
meet. How often is it a sense of duty which alone 
prompts a series of kind attentions ; and although He, 
who sees the heart, will recompense it, it surely should 
not surprise or vex us should the individual to whom 
we extended this kindness prove unheedful. How 
often, in what is called charity to the poor, does a la- 
tent desire of praise pollute the source of benevolence I 
Perhaps there are some who have not, while engaged, 
to human observation, in offices of charity, been con- 
scious of a self-complacent emotion, which they en- 
deavored to shake ofF, as a moral taint, and for the in- 
dulgence of which, they hated while they humbled 
themselves. In such a frame of mind we will not be 
rigid in demanding gratitude. Frequently, too, we 
make our alms a bitter draught to the unfortunate, by 
bestowing it with a careless or supercilious air, by as- 
suming that our liberality gives us a right to control 
the actions of our needy fellow beings, and to rudely 
thrust ourselves into the secret recesses of domestic 
privacy. We need not wonder that benefactions thus 



104 

conferred, are reluctantly received, remembered with 
disgust, and forgotten as soon as possible. Ah ! it re- 
quires a humble heart and a gentle hand to approach 
the sorrows of poverty ; and the law of kindness should 
especially govern their lips who would inquire into 
the grievance of those whose very wretchedness ren- 
ders them sensitive and even envious. 

Our expectations from the gratitude of those whom 
we benefit, are always extravagant, and hence one cause 
of complaint. Even when we have bestowed an es- 
sential service, we are apt to overrate the obligation, 
and look lor a return altogether unreasonable ; not 
satisfied with a fair requital, we would exact usurious 
interest on our kindness. Besides, in the indulgence 
of our own selfishness, we leave out the consideration 
of that of others, and forget that while the former 
leads us to exaggerate our claims upon our friend's 
gratitude, the latter is influencing him to lower them 
in the same degree. 

Dr. Johnson, when consoling an acquaintance upon 
the death of a benefactor, observed, " at least you are 
relieved from the weight of gratitude." Perhaps this 
was saying bitter things against our nature, but the re- 
mark is not wholly destitute of truth. There is a spe- 
cies of gratitude which has been wittily defined, 
" a lively sense of favors expected :" this is the coin 



105 

which passes among us as the representative of the 
real virtue ; and, as interest and convenience are the 
grand hinges upon which society moves, it serves the 
purpose well enough. It must be confessed, this pro- 
spective gratitude does not lack fervour, but it has this 
drawback, that the warmth can only be retained by 
incessant gratuities. 

Instead, then, of exclaiming against the rare occur- 
rence of real gratitude, we should rather be surprised 
that it is so frequently expressed. The true reason 
that it is so rare, is, that it is so seldom deserved. Man 
is, indeed, naturally wayward, easily hardened, and ex- 
posed to sufficient evil to embitter his gentle feelings ; 
but few, nay, none, are so entirely imbruted as not to 
acknowledge the touch of kindness. The accents of 
heart-felt compassion will reach the dullest heart, and 
awaken its kinder emotions ; the locked sensibilities of 
the most rugged will give way to the " open sesame " 
of delicate kindness. Those who are most fond of rail- 
lery against man's ingratitude, will commonly be found 
to have the least reason to expect it ; it is possible to 
be extremely liberal in our benefactions and to confer 
important benefits, yet, by an imperious temper, unrea- 
sonable requirements, or ostentation, to deprive our- 
selves of the affection of the very persons whom we 
oblige. It is difficult to decide which is the most pitia- 



106 

ble, the giver or the receiver, in such circumstances. 
When we thus make our kindness a heavy chain to 
those whose necessities force them to receive it, the 
impatience with which it is borne should not be called 
ingratitude. It is true, that instances of this odious 
vice do sometimes startle us, but when we reflect on 
the preceding considerations, we must allow that there 
is not so much of it in the world, cold as it is, as some 
would suppose. While we act from selfish intentions, 
and cherish unreasonable expectations, we will never 
be contented with the returns of kindness we do re- 
ceive. 

But, doubtless, he who makes it one of his prin- 
ciples of action to cultivate a habitual spirit of be- 
nevolence, and avails himself of every occasion which 
presents itself, of imparting sympathy and aid, will 
seldom be heard complaining of ungrateful treatment. 
He will be satisfied with his share of reciprocated good 
will ; he will taste the most delicious pleasure earth 
can give, the gratitude of a relieved sufferer. Let no 
one shut his heart against his fellow mortals on the 
score of their ingratitude ; let them extend to them 
their sympathies as well as their assistance ; let them 
give good measure of kindness, and they shall not fail 
to receive an abundant return, full pressed and running 
over. Gratitude, however, in all its elevation ami pu- 



107 

rity, can only be entertained towards our beneficent 
Creator and Preserver. Favors from man to man are 
given and received in infirmity, even in noble and vir- 
tuous natures. Where the obligation is great, though 
it be fully and gratefully acknowledged, there is a re- 
gret at the occasion which calls forth the kindness, 
which even that kindness heightens ; there is a long- 
ing for power to repay it, w T hich betrays that the spirit 
feels the pressure. Not so with the bounties of Hea- 
ven : so high and sacred is their source, so over- 
whelming is their magnitude, all thought of re-pay- 
ment is absorbed in our inferiority ; so thickly cluster 
blessings around us, that we may not count their num- 
ber. Our vision dazzles as we view the splendor of 
Heaven's goodness over us, till, touched with awe, we 
surrender our hearts in fervent gratitude and praise. 



108 



VIRTUE OF COURAGE. 

The Romans among their many Gods, erected an 
altar to courage, and it had been well, had all their 
deities been as unexceptionable. The definition which 
the Swedish monarch gave of this quality, is familiar 
to all, but he had reference to mere personal bravery, 
which is courage in its most inferior sense. The gene- 
rality of men possess that bull-dog disposition to vio- 
lence, when opposed to each other, which is often dig- 
nified by the name of courage, but which might justly 
be classed among those propensities which debase our 
nature, The courage of which I would speak, and 
which alone deserves the name, is that moral quality 
which comprehends fortitude to endure, readiness to 
suffer, or to dare difficulty, in defence of justice, or for 
the sake of truth. We see from this simple statement, 
that this is a different sentiment from that which 
prompts us to fell an offending pother to the earth, or 
from that more deliberate manner of shewing valor, 



109 

when men meet, to coolly murder each other after ap- 
proved rules. Such displays of courage, require no 
elevation of feeling. In some cases they are the di- 
rect consequences of fear. Many are the duellists who 
have stood the fire of their antagonist ; many the sol- 
diers who have not turned their back in battle ; not 
from the love of honor and contempt of danger, but 
from fear of the world's scorn overcoming their natural 
reluctance. While we allow, then, that there is a cer- 
tain manliness of character, which shrinks not from 
danger, and concede its full value, let us recollect that 
it is not this alone which constitutes a courageous man. 
Let us distinguish true resolution from that noisy bul- 
lyism which abounds in the world, whose swelling 
threats, however loud they may sound, when put to the 
test, will invariably be found to signify nothing. 

There are two or three striking characteristics of 
real courage. One is an entire absence of boasting. 
We are very prone to dwell most upon those qualities 
in which we feel most deficient, just as it is common for 
those who would be thought refined, to be incessantly 
talking of good society, and smatterers in learning and 
science, to be overwhelming their hearers with pedan- 
tic quotations. The bravery which evaporates itself 
in words, will be found in the moment of danger of lit- 
tle worth. The really courageous are thorough going, 



110 

— not soon disconcerted, nor easily dismayed by diffi- 
culties ; but, above all, they may be distinguished by 
magnanimity. To the brave belong the noble privilege 
to forgive. 

There is scarcely any situation in life, wherein we 
do not need the quality of moral courage. We require 
it to encounter the ills of life, for ills we may not hope 
to escape in this, our day of proof. It is kindly order- 
ed that our afflictions occur suddenly, thus sparing us 
the pang of apprehension — the sickening anticipation ; 
but this very circumstance makes a sudden demand on 
courage to endure, — for if it be presumptuous to abuse 
ungratefully the bounties of Providence, it must be 
equally criminal to faint under his rebuke. It is right 
to tremble and submit, but wrong to sink in despair, 
forgetful that the hand which wounds, means not to 
crush its creatures. We also need the assistance of 
resolution to resist solicitations to evil, and to with- 
stand the powerful effect of pernicious example. Who- 
ever is desirous to fulfil the trust he has received from 
the Creator, will perceive the continual inducements 
offered to his senses and his passions to lead him to its 
betrayal. It is the custom indeed, to admire virtue and 
religion in the abstract, but when embodied in practice, 
it comes too closely in contact with the follies of men, 
is too severe a reproof to their vices, to win their love ; 



Ill 

it is well, if it obtain their toleration. Hence, a truly 
good man may well be a courageous one. 

There are many parts of relative duty, which require 
courage faithfully to perform ; to instance only two : 
— What resolution is necessary to warn a friend 1 
How does the hand tremble, which would tenderly probe 
the wound it wishes to heal, but fears to touch ! When 
we see a friend betrayed into error, how difficult is it 
to incur the risk of anger, perhaps loss of affection, by 
plain reproof ! — painful, indeed, the task of inflicting 
these faithful wounds ! 

Another distressing act of courage, is to deal candid- 
ly with dying friends, — tenderly, yet unshrinkingly, to 
unveil the impending danger, and urge the solemn con- 
siderations which attend it. How often do we falter 
here ! How shall we discharge this task of painful 
kindness ? What language can we find tender enough 
to convey such evil tidings ? With what words shall 
we speak to the grief of him whom God has wounded'? 

But if we require courage through the various events 
of life, there is a scene opening upon us, when we shall 
invoke all the energies of our spirit upon our own ac- 
count. We shall need courage to die. Not to die like 
a buffoon, or with the insensibility of a slaughtered bul- 
lock, nor in the paroxysm of hotheaded valor, — but to 
meet death with the dignity which becomes an immor- 



112 

tal, — the cheerfulness which becomes a christian. It 
all comes to this at last. However strong in resolution, 
however firm of purpose, if our courage be not based 
upon the eternal foundations of religion, at the hour of 
trial, in our utmost need, it will desert us. It cannot 
sustain the pressure of a wounded spirit ; it must have 
to struggle alone with unknown terrors. " Life offers 
many objects to stimulate the mind — death but one," — 
the hope of future happiness. That only, can inspire 
resolution, when the glare of the world, the excite- 
ments of false glory, disappear like the phantoms of a 
vision, and with them the delusive support of unreal 
courage. 






I 



113 



SENSITIVENESS. 

What a medley is human character ! While there 
are many of its qualities that excite admiration:, and 
many, too, that extort feelings of regret, there are some 
which, when acted out in society, cannot but provoke 
the smile of good-humored ridicule. Of this class is 
that proud modesty, or irritable humility — as, for lack 
of a better epithet, I must venture to designate it — that 
not only renders its unfortunate possessor ridiculous, but 
unhappy. Such a person has really an humble opinion 
of himself, and it is his very distrust of his parts which 
occasions his sensitiveness. It were better, had he more 
pride or more humility ; for he has not enough of the 
latter to prevent his being easily*orTended, nor of the 
former to enable him to conceal the mortification of his 
vanity. A disposition thus tainted, is ever on the out- 
look for slights and affronts, watching the variations of 
manner in an acquaintance, and depending for peace 
upon smiles and courtesies, — those counterfeit coin 

L* 



114 

which pass current among the world, in the stead of 
good will and friendship. 

Bulwer has amusingly hit off a caricature of this 
foible, under the name of Mr. Nokes. " Should you, 
through haste or inadvertence, pass him with a slight 
salutation, he is sorely galled at your omission ; he 
pondereth the reason ; he looketh at his hat ; he look- 
eth at his garments ; he is persuaded it is because his 
habiliments were not new, and you were ashamed to be 
seen with him in the street. He never hits on the right 
cause ; he never thinketh you may have pressing busi- 
ness ; Nokes dreameth of no business save that which 
to Nokes appertained." 

There are many Mr. and Mrs. Nokes's in the world ; 
and if we examine closely, we can trace this perverse 
bias of temper to a source which is indeed fruitful of 
more important evils, — even the enthronement of self. 
It is selfishness which prompts us to think that others 
are always consulting our feelings instead of their own, 
and it is the same spirit which makes us angry when 
we discover how sma^ll a space we occupy in their at- 
tention. One of this turn is always at odds with the 
world ; he is either enraged if disliked, or wretched if 
forgotten ; and always ready to think the community 
employed in discussing his demerits, when in truth they 
seldom recur to the fact of his existence. 



115 

Some men of genius, but of inordinate vanity, have 
been disgraced by this error. Witness the sincere, the 
pitiable, and yet amusing lamentations of Rousseau, 
when he dreamed the world was conspiring against his 
life, while they were only pitying his waywardness. 
Nothing can be more absurd than his weakness, unless 
it be the simplicity with which he betrayed it. But 
though in this, and a few other instances, this feeling 
has blurred the reputation of really eminent authors, it 
is to the mediocre tribe of writers that it is mostly con- 
fined. Alas for the composers of sentimental tales for 
souvenirs, and of little thin volumes of poetry ! How 
much of this imaginary ill treatment, at the hands of a 
stupid public, have they to endure ! How many slights 
do they meet, which were not intended ! how many an 
arrow wounds their pride, which the unconscious archer 
never aimed ! And these self-inflicted wounds are very 
severe, because they must necessarily rankle in secret. 
I have known persons suffering under such smarts wear 
the look of a martyr, to the perplexity of all their ac- 
quaintance, who little thought that they had been them- 
selves the innocent torturers. 

This captious humor, whether in writers, or in those 
who walk in the more beaten track of life, ceases, if it 
be indulged, to be a trifling error. Its disagreeable re- 
sults are, acerbity of temper and a vindictive spirit ; and 



116 

it degrades the mind, by harassing it with petty irrita- 
tions. The best corrective against it is self-knowledge 
— a careful and impartial estimate of our own charac- 
ter, the position that we occupy in society, our claim 
upon those around us, and the demands which they 
justly have upon us. Could we be convinced of our 
relative insignificance, we should cease to be unreason- 
ably anxious concerning the opinion of men ; and hav- 
ing marked the course of action which correct judg- 
ment approved, their capricious decision would not 
have power to turn us aside, nor their cavils sufficient 
weight to produce unhappiness. 

There is a degree of self-esteem necessary to peace 
and virtue — I mean that which springs from a con- 
science void of offence. It was an acute observer and 
a deep thinker, who said, " he is happy who condemns 
not himself in that which he allows" — words worthy 
to be indelibly inscribed on every heart. There is also 
a laudable desire of the good opinions of our fellow- 
beings, for precious at all times is the kindness of 
friends. But it is necessary to watch our hearts, lest 
we flatter ourselves into sensitive vanity, and cherish 
an insatiable thirst for that delicious draught, the sound 
of praise. Habitual humble thoughts of ourselves, mo- 
deration in our expectations from others, and a desire 
to please God, is, after all, the best panoply against 



117 

the censoriousness of a world, which the slings and ar- 
rows of unfriendly tongues, aided by our own weak- 
ness, render often a scene of discomfort. Let, then, the 
proud spirit, ruffled by very trifles — the sensitive heart, 
so often stung by the meanest reptile, seek the sacred 
fountains guarded by humility and charity, whose 
streams, more blest than Lethe's fabled wave, induce 
oblivion, not of life's sorrows, but its wrongs ; while 
they impart tranquillity and refreshment to the bosom 
heated with that worst fever of the soul, the anger of 
disappointed pride. 



118 



CURIOSITY 



Of all the propensities by which we vex our neigh- 
bors, and waste our own time, there is not one more 
decidedly unprofitable than the indulgence of idle cu- 
riosity. The habit of searching into trivial matters, 
and interesting the feelings in unravelling affairs entirely 
unimportant, or cherishing a craving desire for some- 
thing novel or exciting, however petty it may be, is 
certainly beneath a rational mind. Yet this trifling 
humor, obtains among men in a singular degree ; it 
was not the polished Athenians only, who spent their 
time in speaking and hearing some new thing. It is 
no other but these Paul Prys of society, which keep it 
in a ferment ; — mortifying indeed, that such insects 
should produce so much uneasiness, — but the tongue, 
though a little member, boasteth, and not without rea- 
son, great things. Were it right or safe to smile at 
evil, it would not be unamusing to observe the avidity 
with which people of this turn seize upon some fruitful 



119 

topic. What a faculty they possess of enlarging on 
every passing occurrence ! how many conjectures and 
cogitations will they lavish ! how earnestly enlist in 
discussing an accident — a marriage — a gossiping tale 
— the authorship of a trifling paper, or any like insig- 
nificance ! Alas, for breath thus idly spent — for inge- 
nuity thus perversely misapplied ! This puerile spirit of 
inquisitiveness should be repressed, not only for its per- 
nicious effects on society, but for its deleterious influ- 
ence on our own character. The mind that is constantly 
absorbed in such minor concerns, insensibly lowers it- 
self; the attention, ever on the stretch for ( news,' as it 
is called, is withdrawn from higher objects, and dissi- 
pated on trifles, while our meditations, chained down 
to the narrow circle which bounds the flight of vain 
curiosity, forget to rise to themes more suitable to our 
capacities, our responsibilities and our destinies. 

This same quality, however, when elevated in its 
pursuits, w T hen given a higher aim, becomes noble and 
useful. The spirit of investigation has perhaps bestow- 
ed more benefits upon the world, has produced more 
important results, than the most brilliant gifts of ge- 
nius. The Pharsalian rustic, when he detected the at- 
tracting powers resident in amber, little thought that 
he was handling the infant bolts of Jupiter. The sim- 
ple shepherd, as he wondered over the the phenome- 



120 

na of the loadstone, and traced its effects, saw not, in 
his farthest range of thoughts, the magnetic needle 
guiding the mariner over the trackless waves of the 
ocean. How important the results consequent in these 
instances, upon the spirit of inquiry ! Hundreds have 
passed unheeding, over the hints of Nicetas and Philo- 
laus, respecting the motion of the earth ; the investiga- 
ting mind of Copernicus saw in them, the germ of his 
immortal system. It is thus to patient, laborious re- 
search, to curiosity considered in its noblest sense, that 
we owe so much that is conducive to knowledge and 
comfort. Curiosity held the lamp which lighted New- 
ton through the skies. Curiosity discovered the key 
which has unlocked so many secrets in mechanics — fa- 
cilitating the progress of all useful arts, almost annihi- 
lating space, and reducing to reality, plans which 
would, a century ago, have been pronounced the dream 
of delirium. In the moral world also, this quality has 
accomplished much ; the attainments which have been 
made in modern times, and are now T in progress in the 
science of metaphysics — the insight into that interesting 
study, the philosophy of mind, which has been afforded 
by persevering investigation, and above all, the added 
light which consecrated study and inquiry have shed 
around the fountain of true knowledge, — the sacred 
volume, — evince its usefulness. But much as has been 



121 

discovered, much, as doubtless in the advancing state 
of the world, remains to be explored, there is a bounda- 
ry, beyond which our limited capacities may not pass, 
at whose threshold, it is wisdom to pause with humility. 
The spirit of inquiry may be carried so far, as to be 
dangerous and criminal, — indeed it has been, for what 
good gift does not man abuse to his own detriment. 
It has been the lot of many deep thinkers, to lose 
themselves in labyrinths of their own contrivance; 
many, more curious than devout, departing from. simple 
truths, have wandered in the mazes of confusion and 
skepticism. "Not deeply to discern, not much to 
know," is, after all our attainments, justly inscribed up- 
on the efforts of the wisest of our race. " Alas," said 
Newton, when allusion was made to his discoveries, 
" I am but a child gathering pebbles upon the shore." 
He had learned what science does not always teack, 
self-distrust, and by his practice, allowed that " humble 
love, and not proud reason, keeps the door of Heaven." 
But there is a view of this element of human charac- 
ter, which throws every other in the shade. The limits 
appointed to its researches here, are incident to our 
situation ; — how greatly shall they be enlarged, when 
that change takes place which must pass over every 
son of earth. Our Creator, in his beneficence, has con- 
stituted this spirit of inquiry, this spirit of knowledge, 



122 

even one of the sources of enduring happiness. In the 
sublime mystery, which, in the nature of things, must 
ever surround an infinite Being, there will be subjects 
of unceasing admiration and wonder to a purified spirit. 
That created beings can never know the uncreated to 
perfection, will cast no shade over celestial blessed- 
ness, — there will ever be new objects of contempla- 
tion, opening their glories upon the enlarging facul- 
ties. Nor idle curiosity, nor vain reasonings there ; 
the spirit of investigation, hallowed to its noblest pur- 
pose, will be always rejoicing in new acquisitions of 
knowledge, and always athirst for more. Let us then 
while we sternly banish curiosity in its inferior applica- 
tion, cherish its elevated use with wise caution, and be 
it our care to exercise it on such subjects now as may 
bear the scrutiny, and make part of the enjoyments 
of a holier state. 



123 



S Y M P A T H Y 



In a world so full of change and trial as this, ex- 
as we are to sorrows varied and severe, how 
inexpressibly precious is human sympathy ! The tones 
of kindness, the look of affection, the tear of sympathy, 
come to the agitated or sinking spirit like healing bal- 
sam poured with a gentle hand upon a burning wound. 

To one staggering beneath a heavy burden, and 
ready to fall, a slight assistance will enable to keep on 
his way ; thus be it but a word, or only a silent but 
affectionate pressure of the hand, it may soften the 
pangs of grief, and aid the sufferer to bear his load of 
sorrow. 

That the sight of happiness does not excite our sym- 
pathy as vividly as that of affliction, is no evidence of 
selfishness, but rather the contrary. They who are 
wretched need commiseration most; and it is kindly 
appointed that our kind feelings flow out to them more 
readily and strongly than they do towards the happy. 



124 

We sometimes think, in witnessing the calamities of 
others, that because we cannot render essential service 
we have nothing to do. But we can give that which 
is more precious than gold : it is placed in the power 
of every human being to soothe affliction, though he 
may not avert or remove it. Fellow-sufferers in the 
scenes of life, in the kind sympathies of the heart there 
is opened a source of consolation, always available and 
welcome. Imperfect as we are, and too often swayed by 
evil passions, this faculty of the soul by which it enters 
into the sorrows it sees, and by sharing lightens them, 
is still left us. What would life be were it not so — 
were this moral law of attraction annulled, and man 
condemned to suffer unpitied and uncared for by his 
brother ? How desolate would our journey be, so fre- 
quently clouded by lowering skies 1 how often would 
the feeble hands sink down for ever, if friendly ones 
were not outstretched to grasp them ? Many times the 
grief of those whom God has wounded would sink them 
in hopeless despondency, did not some kind voice speak 
comfort and awaken the stunned heart, by suggesting 
thoughts of the merciful supports of heaven. Intense 
grief sometimes imparts a fearful sternness to the mind, 
which nothing can touch but sympathy. I witnessed 
an instance of immoveable despairing anguish in a be- 
reaved mother, which nothing could touch but the sym- 



125 

pathy of an humble slave, who, kneeling at her mistress' 
feet, took her passive hand and wept over it tears of 
affection. The silent, modest token of love, reached 
the chords of feeling, awakened her softer emotions, 
and probably averted frenzy from her over-strung spi- 
rit 

But sweet as is human kindness in the hour of need, 
how much more efficient is divine sympathy ! One of 
the titles given to the Supreme is the God of conso- 
lation — one of His dearest attributes is that of compas- 
sion. How beautiful the language used to express His 
kindness for His ancient people : " In all their affliction 
He was afflicted !" So our Redeemer is said to have 
a fellow feeling for our pains, — the word used in the 
original being perhaps the most beautiful and expres- 
sive of any word in any tongue. In all the rugged 
paths which the children of sorrow may be called to 
walk, they may trace His footsteps ; and there is no 
storm so loud that they may not hear His voice cheer- 
ing them. 

There are some minds so peculiar in their structure, 
with whom grief is such " a sacred thing," that they 
cannot reveal their sufferings nor unveil their emotions 
even to the heart of friendship. But He who formed 
that too sensitive spirit can open avenues of comfort, 

M* 



126 

and touch with soothing power those hidden springs of 
feeling, which human sympathy could not reach. 

Doubtless there are many instances where the stroke 
is heavier than the groaning, and where, when friendly 
efforts have done their best, the heart still writhes un- 
der its pangs uncomforted. 

Some sorrow flows forth at the touch of sympathy , 
and finds relief in wailing ; there is a grief which seeks 
to hide itself, and nourish its bitterness in the inmost 
soul, that sheds no tears, nor desires to shed them. 
Time, with its gradually deadening influence, is too 
slow for the affliction of such a mind — it must be 
soothed, or perish. There is but One who can say with 
authority to the tumults of intense grief like this, " Be 
still !" Happy, they who in tribulation taste the sym- 
pathy of friends ; but more blessed they who look for 
and receive the consolations, which the Infinite Mind 
alone knows how and when effectually to impart. 



127 



OUR INFLUENCE UPON OTHERS. 

That we live for ourselves — that we are independent 
of, and irresponsible to our fellow creatures, is a spe- 
cies of philosophy as cold as it is false. But while 
most will admit the fact of our mutual dependence for 
companionship in joy, consolation in sorrow, or support 
in the adversities that track our steps from the cradle 
to the grave, — our mutual responsibility, and the in- 
fluence which we involuntarily exert upon the charac- 
ter of each other, are very much kept out of sight. 
The sedulous care and skill, with which we exclude or 
conceal unpleasing truths from our thoughts, is a nota- 
ble trait in that strange anomaly,, the human heart, and 
is the probable cause of the neglect of this important 
consideration. A few moments' reflection on the rela- 
tion, which, in this view, w 7 e hold to those around us, 
and the duties which grow out of it, may not be idly 
spent. 

Our great Creator has so arranged the machinery of 



128 

society — so adjusted the complicated parts, that each 
has its allotted station and task, the irregularity or 
omission of any of which, mars the harmony of all. It 
is a vain thought, then, that insignificance will screen 
us ; the co-operation of the smallest wheel is essential 
to impel the whole, and it is generally a false humility 
that prompts this plea. It is often, but not always sin- 
cerely asked, what good can I effect, what power can 
my obscure character possess 1 We should rather, sur- 
veying the high faculties with which we are endowed, 
the various furniture of our minds, the innumerable 
ways in which, by our relative situations, we touch the 
springs of action in all connected with us, inquire, 
what good can we not accomplish ? Why are all 
these gifts and opportunities lavished upon us ? Cer- 
tainly to promote our happiness, but that is only to be 
enjoyed by contributing to the welfare of others. Such 
is the constitution of our nature, that joy is not joy, un- 
less it be imparted and shared, and what purer pleasure 
can there be, than that of directing those who look up 
to us, to the light of truth and heaven. Thrice happy 
the man, who consecrates all his influence, whether it 
be great or little, to the service of virtue, — the amelio- 
ration of his species ; for as the duty is important, so 
the reward of its fulfilment is great. We, perhaps, can 
never fully appreciate the power we exert over other 



129 

minds. Whoever has watched his motives, will re- 
member the force of even a trivial remark, in swaying 
his conduct ; a feather's weight inclines the wavering 
balance, — a few words often decide the vacillating 
opinion. Besides, there are multitudes of that indeter- 
minate character, who always take their impressions 
from others, and are inoffensive or vicious, as they are 
led by the good or evil examples around them. 

When, in addition to this, we reflect how extensive, 
as well as powerful our influence may be, we will have 
a still deeper sense of the importance of this subject. 

The cast which we help to give to the charac- 
ter of another, is not confined alone to him, but will 
be imparted to those upon whom he reflects his opin- 
ions ; thus, every immoral act we commit, — every 
false opinion to which we give weight and currency, 
may be exercising a baleful influence, long after we 
have repented of the one, retracted the other, or ceased 
to be an actor in the busy scenes of life. 

Who then can be careless, whether the power which 
he exerts in society be evil or beneficial 1 This is a 
concern which comes home to each individual. The 
fleart of the parent must tell him his responsibilities too 
loudly to be easily silenced ; he knows, for he daily 
sees the reverence with which his child regards him, 
and the accuracy with which the little observer imitates 



130 

hiin. He must be aware, that it is his own character 
that is forming his offspring's, — it is his part solemnly 
to consider whether it shall be good or evil. The des- 
tiny of his child for life, and for eternity, is in a meas- 
ure, placed in his hands, — nay, his remote descendants 
may owe to his example their peace or misery, and in 
the day of retribution, appal him with their accusation, 
or hail him with their grateful blessings. But, though 
more important claims rest on some, and their duties 
are more plainly marked, no one may plead entire ex- 
emption. There is no discharge in this war, and fideli- 
ty is required of the humblest heart that is enlisted in 
the combat. We may invent excuses, and shrink from 
our duties, but we cannot evade them, — we must not 
abuse them. 

The young, too, possess influence — direct, powerful 
influence, with the young. How often do we see the 
solicitations and example of a youthful associate, out- 
weigh the counsel and entreaties of more experienced 
friends. It is indeed, upon the youthful portion of my 
readers, I would impress this truth. You, who have 
not yet incurred the guilt of misleading your fellow be- 
ings, spare yourselves the unkown pangs, which the re 1 * 
membrance of such guilt brings. Arrange yourselves, 
and all the power over others which you possess, on 
the side of religion and virtue ; and forget not that this 



131 

power is increasing every day, as character matures, 
and opportunities of action open upon the view. Do 
not cloak sloth and selfishness with the mantle of hu- 
mility, but be awake to the influence you do possess, 
and be assured, you will find the desire of winning those 
around you to virtue by a virtuous example, the no- 
blest incentive to purity, the strongest guard against 
temptation to evil, and the most abundant reward for 
self-denial, or salutary discipline, which the prosecu- 
tion of such a course may render expedient. Indeed, 
the desire of usefulness, of reflecting honor upon our 
divine benefactor, will lead us in every way to approve 
ourselves blameless before men. How can we exert a 
good influence, if we do not practice that which is 
good ; how shall we allure others to walk with us in 
the paths of goodness, unless we evince by our alacrity 
— our purity — our cheerfulness, that we breathe her 
sacred spirit, and taste her animating cordials. 

Let us not be mistaken. If the heaven lighted flame 
of piety and virtue warm our hearts, it will diffuse far 
around, its radiance, attracting the heedless, directing 
the perplexed, cheering the mind. But we cannot be 
neutral ; if the influence our example affords be not 
positively good, it will be positively evil — and oh ! the 
tenfold aggravation of that guilt, that cold selfishness 
which not only impels men to surrender themselves to 



132 

the slavery of vice and error, but can unmoved contem- 
plate the fearful risk of drawing numerous victims, by 
precept, example, and influence, into the same loath- 
some bondage ; — victims, perhaps the partners of their 
blood, to whom the very nearness of their ties has giv- 
en a sad title to shame and misery. 






133 



SOCIAL INEQUALITIES. 

As I was lately enjoying an evening walk, and strol- 
ling through the outskirts of the city, a handsome and 
well appointed equipage, filled with smiling faces, 
whirled by me. These people, I thought, are happy — 
probably affluent ; and wealth is certainly one great 
item in the sum of happiness. Setting aside the grati- 
fication of luxury, — the command of time — the enjo}'- 
ment of leisure, is no small privilege ; besides, wealth 
buys kindness and attention. Whose health and spirits 
are made subjects of importance, and discussed with 
interest ? The rich man's, certainly : — None think of 
distressing themselves about the poor man's health, or 
notice when he droops. This kindness is, indeed, only 
purchased, and has not much reference to intrinsic 
worth ; but we are apt to forget a truth so unpleasant, 
and to set to the account of our own merit, the good 
estimation which we owe to our prosperity. While 
thus considering the advantages which the possession 



134 

of a certain quantity of Bank notes confer, my eye 
rested upon a female, who had hastily stepped aside, to 
make way for the gay party which had just passed, 
and her humble, but respectable appearance, gave my 
thoughts a different direction. When she had walked 
a few paces before me, she stopped, and entered into a 
very lowly tenement ; one apartment was all the room 
it seemed to afford, but that was spotless in its neat- 
ness. A bright fire blazed upon the hearth, some 
healthy children played upon the floor, and welcomed 
their mother with glad voices, while she herself looked 
around her with an air of contentment, and there was 
cheerfulness in the tones of her voice, as she spoke to 
her little ones. Here was happiness, too. Wealth, 
then, I thought, is only one item after all. In endea- 
voring to thread the tangled events of life, a close ob- 
server will avail himself of the most common incidents, 
and will often find a clue to his inquiries, in what heed- 
less eyes would pass unnoticed, or regard as trivial. 

When we survey society en masse, and perceive the 
apparent inequalities which mark men's circumstances, 
— some exalted so high — others depressed so low, — 
some borne smoothly on by favoring currents — others 
shipwrecked by adverse gales, — one enjoying the light 
of knowledge — another enveloped in the darkness of 
ignorance; — when we observe how one half of the 



135 

world are bullying the other half into a belief of their 
merit, while vice and folly too often triumph, and vir- 
tue withers in the shade, we recoil from the compli- 
cated — the disheartening scene. But if we take a clo- 
ser view, and pierce beyond mere externals, we shall 
find the consolatory truth, that happiness is meted out 
with an even hand, — that there are none so blest, as to 
feel no pain — none so wretched as to taste no bliss. 
The slave, whose life is a task, whom every rising sun 
calls to labor without motive or reward, would seem 
placed without the pale of enjoyment ; — yet provision 
is made, even for him. What though his pleasures lie 
in a narrow circle, his desires do not overstep it. Be- 
hold him released from toil, whistling and dancing, — no 
cares for the future oppress his mind, — he literally takes 
no thought of the morrow; no responsibilities cast a 
shade over his brow ; all these he leaves to his master, 
who, perhaps, lies restless on luxurious couches, disqui- 
eted or unsatisfied amidst abundance ! — yes, who often, 
in the secret bitterness of his heart, envies the very 
menial whose fate would seem so much darker than his 
own. The lot of the laborer, w 7 ho, by his daily exer- 
tions, earns only his daily subsistance, — to whom a fe- 
ver, or an accident, may bring absolute want — w T ho, 
when he looks upon his children, must sometimes trem- 
ble to feel that on his precarious life and strength they 



136 

depend alone, his destiny wonld appear a hard one. 
Hard, indeed, were it not mercifully mingled with pecu- 
liar comforts. He can speak of unbroken slumbers, 
and he feels that the fruits of his industry are inex- 
pressibly sweet. He is a stranger to capricious or arti- 
ficial wants, and never heard of ennui. Neither are 
the unlettered so cut off from enjoyment as their more 
intellectual brethren would suppose ; — we cannot mourn 
a good we never knew, and though far from underva- 
luing the delights which taste and cultivation afford, 
who that has tasted them, need to be reminded of their 
alloy. Man has always paid the penalty of plucking 
fruit from the tree of knowledge. The insatiable thirst, 
the ever unsatisfied excitement of mind which progres- 
sive advances in intellectual attainments produce, the 
toil of thought, those hours of mental abstraction, when 
the overwrought powers recoil upon themselves, — are 
we quite sure, that all this is compensated for, by the 
pleasure of knowledge, or the distinctions of fame ? 

Who will show us any good % is the universal cry ; 
and to seek this good in external circumstances, is the 
universal mistake. We toil for wealth, grasp at ho- 
nors, and pant for fame, ignorant or forgetful that hap- 
piness originates deep in the soul, — that man is, in a 
great degree, the framer of his own peace, — that to 
practise virtue is the science of happiness, — self-govern- 



137 

ment its noble secret. Vain are the appliances of rank 
or fortune, the endearments of affection, or the grati- 
fications of taste, to the miserable vassal of his own 
passions. True pleasure blooms only for the free, and 
there lives not a more helpless slave than he who re- 
signs his will to the dominion of appetite, or the sway 
of evil tempers. The foundation of true happiness is 
laid in moral goodness, — we shock our own peace in 
every instance that we outrage the commands of virtue. 

" For united close her sacred interests with the strings of life." 

Another general error is, to mistake merry mirth, or 
giddy excitement, for enjoyment. A master in morals 
has said, true pleasure is a serious thing, — drawn from 
the depths of an approving conscience — not the eva- 
nescent smiles of flatterers ; living in the light of hea- 
ven — not in the meteor glory of human applause, it is 
independent of changing events — makes one in the 
abode of poverty — deserts not the bed of suffering, and 
can " talk with threatening death and not turn pale." 
This is a very different kind of happiness from that 
which needs the accompaniment of the harp and the 
viol, — the stimulants of show and vanity. 

But if the means of pleasure be thus accessible to 
all, how is it that so few have tasted her delicious cup 1 
Nature unconsciously invites us to rejoice with her, and 



138 

why do we not rejoice 1 Is it not that, too frequently, 
we aim entirely wrong ? we fix upon some fancied 
good, and in endeavoring to obtain it, we pertinaciously 
refuse the enjoyments within our reach ; — nay, ungrate- 
fully trample upon proffered pleasure which would seem 
to impede our progress ; nay, when, gratified in our 
pursuit, we grasp the bubble, and find it painted, we 
complain of fate, and wonder that we are unhappy. 
Are not our pursuits too often selfish, thus securing to 
ourselves disappointment ? Are they not sometimes 
unworthy, exposing us to those rebukes of conscience, 
which sting like poisoned arrows 2 Have we any right 
to complain of that beneficent hand which has placed 
so many blessings within our reach, if, in our wayward- 
ness, we turn away from them I and can we, with any 
show of reason, repine at evils which we inflict upon 
ourselves 1 

It is true that clouds do darken the path of the good : 
virtue shields not the heart from sorrow. Affliction, as 
she walks her dreary round, leaves no human breast 
unvisited. But, even in calamity, there is a noble hap- 
piness, if I may so express it, which none but the good 
taste. It is the upright man alone, who is serene, when 
others tremble ; it is he who sustains the adversities of 
life with fortitude and dignity ; encounters its difficul- 
ties with courage, or bends to them with patience — 

" And when he falls, writes Vici on his shield." 



139 



PRUDENCE. 

While the admiration of men is attracted by talent 5 
courage, and the more showy qualities which adorn 
the character, those substantial ones, which, though 
less obtrusive are not the less important, are passed 
over almost unnoticed. The brightest gifts of genius 
are no compensation for the absence of prudence ; yet 
while we daily hear talent and genius lauded, how T lit- 
tle is said of this cardinal virtue, which is indeed the 
basis of all that is valuable. Prudence, which is but 
another name for common sense, or the faculty of 
judging and acting discreetly, would seem to be dis- 
tinct from wisdom, though a department of it, as it is 
applied to the conduct and opinions as they operate on 
conduct, while wisdom comprehends intelligence and 
speculative knowledge. Prudence, therefore, is know- 
ledge applied to practical uses, and includes foresight 
and reflection ; and if we follow the influence of this 
virtue into actual life, we must immediately perceive 



140 

its great importance, and the bearing which it has not 
only on the every day concerns of the world, but on the 
regulation of the conduct as respects man's happiness 
and highest hopes. When, therefore, we counsel the 
youthful aspirant for life's distinctions to be prudent, 
though it might seem a homely saying, it would in 
effect be urging him to be virtuous, honorable and 
beneficent ; — for in arranging this plan for future ac- 
tion, prudence would suggest such a course as the most 
effectual towards gaining his desired object — God's ap- 
proval, happiness, and the world's esteem. 

It is a subject of regret that we are so prone to be 
imposed on by appearances, — so apt to call things by 
wrong names. Well may man be styled imagination's 
fool, thus easily misled by glare, and betrayed by unreal 
pretensions. Were we always to judge soberly, many 
applauded qualities would begin to take the lowest 
place in our consideration. Profuseness, for instance, 
so often named generosity and whole-heartedness, would 
be abased ; and prudence, in that branch of it called 
economy, which is the source of liberality, would be 
elevated in its place. It is not uncommon for men to 
ascribe the untoward occurrences of life to misfortune 
or fate, (whatever they may mean by that absurd ex- 
pression,) when in fact tliey can be traced directly to 
want of prudence. Whatever consolation it may afford 



141 

to think ourselves victims, when we are only the agents 
of our own vexations, it must have an evil tendency by 
preventing the detection of the true cause, and thus 
leading us to repair the error. Afflictions indeed are 
incident to humanity, but it is necessary carefully to 
distinguish those which are unavoidable, from such as 
we draw upon ourselves by our heedlessness or folly, — 
and to endeavor to profit by the experience they afford. 
It is a usual thing to hear one who is careless of 
speech, complaining of petty feuds and embarrass- 
ments, and of the perversity of his neighbors; but, had 
prudence kept the door of his lips, he would have been 
preserved from the strife of tongues though surrounded 
by discord. The merchant whose too extended plans 
and rash calculations entangle him in perplexities, 
bewails his misfortunes and rails at the uncertainty of 
commerce ; but had prudence directed his schemes in 
the stead of that spirit of gambling which, by a com- 
mon mistake, is called enterprize, these disastrous re- 
sults might have been averted. Unfortunate men are 
not always imprudent ones, but the imprudent are ever 
unfortunate, by a consequence as inevitable as that they 
who will not use their vision, must stumble or lose their 
way. 

There is another strange perversion of language 
which may be noticed in this connexion. When one 



142 

is spoken of whose deteriorated appearance and de- 
based faculties proclaim him a victim of that destroyer 
on whose life, and soul-consuming altar, the most pre- 
cious sacrifices are daily offered — how common to call 
such a one unfortunate. — Nay, let us call his wife, his 
children, his kindred unfortunate ; he is erring and im- 
prudent ; grant him the deepest compassion of the soul, 
but accord your pity to his vices, not to his misfortunes. 
To the gentler sex prudence recommends itself by every 
consideration. In the retired circle of domestic duties, 
occasions seldom occur to call forth the more splendid 
qualities, but discretion or prudence is in constant re- 
quisition. Indeed, beauty, taste, genius, those graces 
which render woman lovely and endearing, unless they 
are allied to prudence are absolutely fatal to peace and 
usefulness. There is a spurious sort of prudence, which 
is little else than cold selfishness, indulged to the ex- 
clusion of every generous sentiment, and which seems 
to entitle its possessor to regard with contemptuous 
pity, those whose heart and property are alike open to 
the wants of suffering humanity. Christian prudence 
also, though proper in itself, serves too often as a con- 
venient and specious cloak for indifference or formality, 
or cowardly desertion of principle. Who then is a 
prudent man ? He who carefully reflects on the conse- 
quences of different opinions and actions, — who weighs 



143 

the benefits and disadvantages of any proposed end, 
and if it is proper and attainable, ascertains the best 
means for its accomplishment, — he who is directed not 
by impulse but reason, who does not even approach 
the line which separates virtue and vice, — who, while he 
forms wise plans for time, forgets not that they are for 
time only. He alone is prudent who considers rightly 
his situation here, and perceiving that all go to one 
place, all are of the dust, and all return to dust again, 
— and that to his final rest he shall take nothing of his 
labor which he may carry away, — sends before him 
works of mercy and goodness, thoughts of purity and 
peace, the fervent aspirations of a humble spirit. 



144 



THE DAUGHTER. 

The mother looks upon her son, as he rises into man- 
hood, with feelings of pride and trust : if calamity as- 
sails her, and robs her of other protectors, his arm will 
be her defence ; and she can even think of leaving him 
to win his way through the world, with composure. 
But, when she sees the smiling girl by her side, she 
trembles. How willingly would she throw herself be- 
tween that young heart and the trials and changes 
which she knows must come. With similar emotions 
the father beholds his son's entrance into the active du- 
ties of life : he must struggle and toil; it is man's part, 
and the resolute boy can brave it all. But the fair 
flower that grows beneath his sheltering care, his timid, 
helpless daughter — what a delicate, holy tie is that 
which links her to his heart, which enwraps his honor 
and happiness in hers ! Dear are all children to the 
parental heart, but the daughter claims and takes the 
tenderer, deeper interest there. Guarded by the father's 






145 

care, watched and guided by maternal love, and often 
doubly shielded by manly brothers, how little would 
seem left to a youthful female to wish, how plain and 
easy the circle of a daughter's duties ! Yet some err 
here, it may be, not well aware of their responsibili- 
ties. Selfishness and petulance are the sins peculiarly 
incident to this stage of female life. Sins they are, 
for they lead to the neglect of the claims of others, and 
cause pain to the hearts of those whose happiness it is 
the child's first duty to consult. Ah ! let them beware : 
if there be any offence visited on earth, it is breach of 
filial tenderness. The tears of many a neglected mother 
are followed by the blush which memory brings at the 
thoughts of past unkindness to one whom neither kind- 
ness nor repentance now can reach. The part in the 
domestic group which God has assigned to a daughter, 
is one filled with usefulness, comprising precious, thrice 
blessed duties. It is hers to beguile the ' anxieties of 
her father, by a thousand attentions, the promptings of 
affection, — to draw him from his cares, and win him to 
cheerfulness. Above all, she is to be her mother's 
comforter, the sharer and lightener of her domestic 
cares, her constant companion, her tender, sympathis- 
ing, respectful friend. 

To the younger members of the household, she is at 
once the gentle monitress and endeared playmate ; she 



146 

stands between them and the parents, the moderator of 
all difficulties, and comforter of all troubles. From the 
urchin who wants his ball covered, the little one who 
desires a dress for her doll, to those of larger growth, 
who encounter, as they advance, more serious difficul- 
ties, the eldest daughter is the confiding resource, and 
her deportment and character go very far in the mould- 
ing of the rest. 

I have often thought that I could see the good influ- 
ence of a gentle, sensible, pious daughter throughout 
the whole family, even to the humblest servant. I knew 
one such spirit, who exercised a healthful power over 
her household, leading, as with silken bands, her tur- 
bulent brother, impressing her loving temper upon the 
dispositions of her sisters, and sending a benign influ- 
ence into the rude cabin of the cotton field. 

When she departed, for she died in the freshness of her 
bloom, it seemed as if the glory of the house had passed 
away ; yet, as the younger children attained maturity, 
they developed the same traits of character, and were 
wont to refer to her as the model by which they wished 
to live ; so that long after the gentle girl had left the 
world, she really lived to blessher family in the perma- 
nent influence of her example. 

There has been much written in the present day of 
woman's rights and privileges. She has rights and 



147 

privileges important, I had almost said unlimited ; the 
privilege of loving and being loved: she has an empire 
the most precious that heart can wish, that of affec- 
tion : she has an office the holiest that pure minds 
can desire — to her is committed the trust of domestic 
peace — to her it is given to be the comforter of the fa- 
mily group, and the presiding spirit of the household 
hearth. 



148 



EVILS OF DISCONTENT. 

" Whether it be not delightful to complain, and 
whether there be not many who had rather utter their 
complaints, than redress their grievances V 9 

This inquiry of good Bishop Berkely has probably 
arisen in every observing mind. The universal rest- 
lessness and dissatisfaction of man with the present 
good, however passionately it has been desired, or ea- 
gerly pursued, has afforded moral writers an argument 
in favor of the eternal and noble nature of the soul. 
One who has treated the subject with equal skill and 
eloquence, inquires — 

" Deep in rich pasture, will thy flock complain ? 
Not so ; but to their master is denied 
To share their sweet serene — 
Poor in abundance, famished at a feast !" 

And hence he affirms that man's " discontent is im- 
mortality." But there are some who inherit a double 
share of discontentment, or rather whose choice and 
folly it is, to cherish a sensitive complaining temper, 



149 

which magnifies the common cross accidents of life into 
misfortunes, and gives to mere vexations, the poignan- 
cy of affliction. Such a habit of mind, clothes the 
world in mournful drapery : ever searching out evil, it 
overlooks the good that is so abundantly mingled with 
it, and receives with sour distrust, the beneficence of 
Heaven. Hope itself, that " cordial, innocent, though 
strong," loses its cheering influence over the discontent- 
ed; those bright anticipations which invigorate exer- 
tion, and delight the cheerful mind ; those aspirations 
for excellence, and that affectionate hope we love to in- 
dulge for others ; all these are unknown to him who 
resolves to be unhappy in spite of Providence, or who 
perversely cultivates a disposition which so anxiously 
prepares for the evils of to-morrow, as to poison the 
happiness of to-day. Wo to those, over whose peace 
a temper such as this sheds its malign influence ! The 
storms of anger are indeed painful to encounter, but 
the sun will beam out, when the thunder cloud has pas- 
sed ; the moral atmosphere in which the peevish dwell, 
though dark and dull, is never cleared by an explosion, 
but keeping the fretful tenor of their way, they will 
even inveigh against the violence of the passionate. 

The ingenuity with which these murmurers evade all 
attempts to console them, is wonderful, and vexatious 
too. In vain is some soothing topic, or alleviating ch> 



150 

cumstance suggested ; grievance upon grievance, like 
hydra heads, start up as quick as they are demolished, 
and bid defiance to reason ; like honest Dogberry, they 
are proud that they have " had losses," and seem to 
imagine their complainings invest them with a kind 
of importance. There cannot be a greater mistake. 
While real sorrow does command profound sympathy, 
and the heart unlocks its gentlest emotions to the ac- 
cents of unfeigned grief, the querulousness of the dissa- 
tisfied, and their thankless lamentations over trivial ills, 
have a direct tendency to harden the feelings, and pro- 
duce weariness or disgust. There is no object perhaps 
which inspires so deep and tender a reverence, as an 
uncomplaining sufferer ; one who sustains in silence the 
pressure of calamity. How do the kindest sensibilities 
awaken towards him whose stroke is evidently heavier 
than his groaning ! We bear with allowance, even 
the clamorous waitings of the truly afflicted ; but to the 
language of fretful complaint, it is impossible to give 
our sympathy. Persons of this description would 
doubtless be surprised, if, instead of condolence, an ho- 
nest adviser should counsel them to redress their grie- 
vances, by mastering their perturbed spirits. The li- 
mited income, the perplexities of business, domestic 
cares, the numerous little disappointments which it is 
the lot of all to encounter daily, derive most of their 



151 

bitterness from our own indulged susceptibility. They 
have little power but that with which we arm them, 
by receiving them with impatience, or brooding over 
them in sullenness. 

Great, amid the turmoil of existence, is the benefit 
of a prepared heart ; and, as it is the duty, so it is 
within the easy grasp of all, to seriously consider the 
scene on which we act a part, to contemplate calmly 
its real evils, to fortify the mind with patience, and 
strengthen it by trust in Providence, to keep in exercise 
kindly and grateful emotions. This seems a task, rea- 
sonable and delightful to one who would wisely use 
the gift of life. A cheerful spirit, while it contributes 
to our own felicity, and that of others, is a suitable re- 
turn of gratitude to our Creator, and an expressive 
way of honoring the arrangement of His providence ; 
but the discontented reproach their Maker, and ca- 
lumniate his wisdom, while they disparage His good- 
ness. It is to repining hearts, the poet says, 

" Thy course of duty run — 
God nothing does, nor suffers to be done, 
But thou wouldst do thyself, couldst thou but see 
The end of all events, as well as He." 

Some there are, who possess by constitution, gaiety 
of disposition ; these may be said to * live in the sun ;" 
even the clouds of sorrow hover not long over their 
horizon. Their errors are in the contrary extreme. 



152 

While the gloomy mind overrates evil, the gay spirit 
shakes it off too lightly ; vivacity is apt to emerge into 
frivolity and recklessness, instead of being elevated by 
gratitude, and restrained by reverence for Heaven. 
But I know not why all men should not possess at least 
tranquillity of mind, why the world is filled with moan- 
ings and rebellious murmurings, except it be that we 
wander so far, and so blindly, from the true and only 
source of of cheerfulness. We lean upon human affec- 
tion, and it fails us ; we amass treasures, and find that 
they are not happiness ; we struggle for honors, and 
discover that they are not peace ; or, lowering our aim, 
we follow the phantom pleasure, but are compelled to 
confess, that riot and excess, though it is excitement 
and turbulence, is not joy. Thus, wounded and com- 
plaining, we pass on through life, while on the munifi- 
cent bounties around us, is legibly inscribed by their 
Giver, " acquaint thyself w r ith me, and be at peace." 
This, then, is the one remedy for discontentment, the ef- 
fectual rectifier of every ill, the eternal spring of hap- 
piness, friendship with the Most High. Human lan- 
guage fails in endeavoring to express the fulness of 
this felicity, but inexpressibly exalted as it is, it is gra- 
ciously proffered to erring, sorrowing, but penitent hu- 
manity. 



153 



THE CLOSE OF THE WEEK. 

Another Saturday evening ! How steady is our 
onward course ; how swiftly are the moments hurrying 
us towards that undiscovered country, which, so near 
in reality, is, in our apprehension, at such an immeasu- 
rable distance ! The flight of time — what a trite, yet 
what a startling theme ! It is, alas, the deep convic- 
tion, the repeated experience of life's perishable nature, 
— its fleeting term, that makes the subject trite. We 
hear of it from the admonitory voice of the preacher, — 
we see it in the fading countenances of our friends, — 
we feel it in the wasting energies of our own frames ; 
and yet we forget it. We are sailing so rapidly down 
life's current, that we have scarcely time to pluck the 
flowers that bloom on the receding shores ; even while 
we would pause to gaze upon the scenery, it disappears. 
Heedless travellers, we take little thought of this peri- 
lous haste, — we know not, or will not recollect, with 
what a shock the ocean beyond will swallow up the 



154 

stream that bears us ; — and shall we shut our eyes till 
our frail bark is dashed upon its waters— till we 
" awake too late, a wreck," — a wreck of what? not 
of life's visionary bliss — not of the brittle joys and pos- 
sessions which belong to time's little hour, but of im- 
mortal hopes, exalted destinies, noble as our capacities 
— eternal as our being. And shall we deem such a 
subject tedious, as an oft-repeated tale '? Would that I 
might borrow the burning eloquence of a seraph, that 
my own heart, and the hearts of those who read, might 
be impressed with its importance ! Amused by life's 
rattle, pressed by its various cares, and occupied by its 
alternate hopes and fears, it is not strange that amid 
the din, the noiseless step of time should be almost un- 
heard. But it is wise often to remember, that, though 
unmarked by us, he slackens not his pace : through 
scenes of joy or sorrow, pain or ease, he never folds his 
wing. Why, then, exclaim the thoughtless, let us en- 
joy his fleeting hour — " let us eat and drink, for to- 
morrow we die 1" Bravely resolved, if that, indeed, 
were all, — were " the be all, and the end all, here ;" 
but since too many stern arguments convince us of the 
contrary, let us step aside from the world a little while 
and consider the preciousness of that momentary being 
which men call time. Its true value, indeed, none but 
the dying can tell, — but we may form some idea of it, 



155 

by simply looking back and asking ourselves, what time 
has done for us ? Have we treasured up the experience 
which he has brought ? — for to the considerate, each 
added day reveals some secret of existence ; — or has he 
come and gone, a thousand times, and left us stupidly 
slumbering, — living without a purpose, — swayed by 
the humor of the instant, or agitated by restless pas- 
sions ? Time, says one, waits upon us each morning, 
and asks, what wilt thou have me to do 1 Were we 
wise to answer, we might say, — " bring me in thy 
course to the abodes of want ; make me acquainted 
this day, with the luxury of doing good ; let each of 
thy golden moments, O Time, be laden with useful ef- 
forts — virtuous thoughts — such as I would wish to see 
engraved on yonder firmament, — as I shall not tremble 
to hear proclaimed, when all secrets are revealed." 

It will give us a correct notion of time's importance, 
also to reflect what can be effected in one of its shortest 
periods. How much can we live in a single hour ! A 
few moments, — what a change in our destiny may they 
effect ! What a revolution in our character ! A little 
while ago, my name was irreproachable, — now T , cor- 
ruption stains my hands. Yesterday, my heart was 
light and innocent — to-day, weighed down with blood- 
guiltiness ; — but yesterday, I clasped the form I loved, 
— to-day, I lay it in the grave. To-day, I am in the 



156 

region of life, of hope — immortal happiness within my 
reach ; — where, and what shall I be to-morrow 1 An 
hour, fully employed, will give us an estimate of the 
value of our moments. " An hour well spent, condemns 
a life. When we reflect on the sum of improvement 
and delight gained in that single hour, how do the 
multitude already past, rise up and say, what good 
marked us 1 Wouldst thou know the true worth of 
time, employ one hour." It is inconceivable with what 
mad wastefulness we trifle away our days. The bu- 
siest of us all are but busy idlers \ heaping up straws 
with, perverse diligence, while heaven's glories open 
unheeded above us. Even when our energies are well 
directed, for lack of constancy of mind, how little do 
we make of life ; — how are its most precious opportu- 
nities frittered into nothing ! The lavishness of him 
who would scatter diamonds to the winds, is nothing 
to ours, — for what arithmetic can compute the value of 
those days and years, which we suffer to glide past us, 
as idly as the summer gale ! 

We should not, then, enter the list against time, nor 
treat him as an enemy. Alas ! the contest is unequal ! 
Be it our wisdom, to make him our friend, who must 
ultimately be our conqueror. 

" Go fix some weighty truth ; 
Chain down some passion, do some generous good ; 



157 



Teach ignoranee to see, or grief to smile ; 

Correct thy friend, befriend thy greatest foe, 

Or with warm heart and confidence divine, 

Spring up and lay strong hold on him who made thee." 

There are those, (rational and intellectual beings too,) 
who complain of the tediousness of time. Have they 
ever reflected, how short will seem that day, which, to 
them, will know no morrow 1 For careless as we are 
and lavish of our choicest treasure, we shall not always 
remain so ; a period is approaching, when time will 
have its due value in our judgment, — when its very mi- 
nutes will be breathlessly counted, and the added years 
of a long life will dwindle to a speck, and the world's 
brightest show of honors, appear like passing shadows. 

That mysterious curtain, which conceals from our 
view the invisible world, must soon be drawn aside ; — 
perhaps, even now, the hand that upholds it, may be 
gathering up its impervious folds, and a new scene shall 
flash upon our dazzled eyes. Let us often, — let us so- 
lemnly consider this truth, and reflect upon the appalling 
signification in such circumstances of those brief words, 

TOO LATE. 



158 



PRECEPT AND PRACTICE. 



Among the various inconsistencies which we witness 
in the world, there is not one more striking than the 
wide discrepancy between the opinions which men hold, 
and their general practice. When, overborne by the 
force of truth, persons are obliged to admit right 
views, we need not wonder that they do not apply these 
views to practical purposes ; but when these admissions 
have become settled opinions, and even deepened into 
conviction, we might reasonably expect corresponding 
action. The most superficial observation will convince 
us, however, of the contrary. He knows little of him- 
self, who knows not what a different being he is in the 
calm moments of retirement, and amidst the excitement 
of society ; and who does not daily feel how little his 
practice coincides with his theory. I know and approve 
the right, but pursue the wrong, was an honest confes- 
sion, long ago, nor has it ceased to be appropriate now. 
The refined Heathen, who made this declaration, was 



159 

guided by the light of nature and conscience alone, and 
though that was distinct enough to reveal this truth, 
how feeble were its rays, compared to the mid-day 
splendor which is shed upon our path, and which makes 
our departure from right so much the less excusable, 
that it is not because we do not know the better, but 
perversely choose the wrong way. We do not perceive 
this disagreement in all the conduct of men. The 
merchant does not give credit, where he has probable 
ground of suspicion, nor venture his property in invest- 
ments that he deems unsafe ; the professional man will 
not risk his reputation, nor waste his abilities on cases 
which he knows to be untenable or disgraceful : here 
they honestly follow their opinions, and act them out. 
My judgment tells me, that such means are the best to 
secure or advance my reputation or wealth : at the ex- 
pense of severe toil and thought, I follow its dictates, 
and am right and consistent in thus doing. My con- 
science tells me, " your course is adverse to happiness 
and virtue ;" experience suggests, life is short, no longer 
trifle with its uncertainties ; reason commands, restrain 
this evil habit in its birth, lest it grow to be your tyrant ! 
My creator is ever speaking in numberless ways, return, 
return, my son, give me thine heart. Yet I pursue 
the same wayward course, bestow no regrets on lost 
opportunities forever past, but yielding myself a willing 



160 

captive to passion, turn away from the fountain of life, 
and wander in the dark. And all the while not pre- 
tending to question the justice and reasonableness of 
these requisitions ! This is inconsistency — this is indeed 
to know the right, but follow the wrong. The question 
then occurs, why men are so consistent in one part of 
their conduct, and so extremely deficient in another ? 
Why do they yield obedience to their convictions in 
some instances, and pertinaciously and successfully re- 
sist them in others ? Is conscience weak 1 Let the 
restlessness of those, who, surrounded with every out- 
ward means of happiness, war against their own per- 
ceptions of right, answer. Let their dissatisfaction, 
who have received all the rewards the world can give, 
let the feeling which urges the suicide to draw aside 
abruptly the curtain of eternity, answer. Neither is 
conscience treacherous : she never betrays, until again 
and again betrayed and outraged. It is true, that con- 
science marks down each secret and open error, in 
leaves more durable than leaves of brass ; it is true, that 
death shall read this appalling list in every " pale de- 
linquent's ear." But it is no less true, that she is faith- 
ful in her warnings, faithful even in the pangs which 
she inflicts, nor have her admonitions ever been with- 
drawn, until they have ceased to be reverenced. The 
answer to this serious question, must be referred to the 



161 

heart of the candid and reflecting inquirer ; the fact 
from which it is elicited, is that which arras death with 
its deadliest sting, and robs life of all its solid peace. 
It is this which causes us to shut our eyes upon our 
past life. Alas, little comfort is there in the remem- 
brance of right sentiments belied by wrong actions, of 
virtuous resolves melted by the first breath of tempta- 
tion, and of little avail to have been the nominal admi- 
rers of goodness, when we have really been the friends 
and upholders of vice. This discrepancy may also be 
remarked between the writings and the actions of men. 
Publishing one's opinions to the world, would seem to 
be a strong tie upon their conduct ; it is a public com- 
mittal, a pledge to virtue, which might surely be held 
sacred. But nothing more fallacious than this idea. 
How many instances rise on the memory of signal disa- 
greement between the published sentiments of an au- 
thor, and the tenor of his life ! And virtuous opinions,, 
without corresponding actions, are calculated to dimi- 
nish the force of their impressions, and thus harden the 
heart, and deteriorate the character by those very 
means which should produce its amendment. And 
certainly, if there is great guilt incurred by acting 
contrary to the convictions of right which we feel, 
there must be much heavier accountability resting on 
such as give their opinions shape, and record them for 



162 

the instruction of others, — an accountability which 
might well make the hand of the writer tremble, — in- 
still in his mind feelings of caution, and stimulate him 
to illustrate his sentiments by a consistent and virtuous 
practice. 



163 



THE BEGINNING AND THE END. 

I have often been struck by the apparent dispropor- 
tion between a cause and effect. It is a curious and 
interesting subject of research to trace consequences to 
their causes, and to observe from what trivial springs, 
the most important events frequently arise. When 
Bruce stood by the little fountain, among the moun- 
tains of Abyssinia, the reward of all his toil and 
danger, his emotions, which found vent in tears, must 
have partaken not only of gratified ambition, but of 
moral sublimity. His thoughts must have followed in 
its course the quiet rill which glided at his feet, gra- 
dually deepening and widening, until at a far off dis- 
tance, he beheld the Nile, the glory and support of 
Egypt. Thus, in the moral and political world, we 
may see the same phenomena ; history affords num- 
berless instances of great revolutions originating from 
apparently trifling causes, — the taunt of a rival, the 
omission of some point of etiquette, even the frown of 



164 

a woman have, before this, been the occasion of years 
of misery and war, — indeed we cannot investigate past 
events without often recollecting the remark of the 
Swedish statesman, " you see what small matters 
decide the fate of nations." 

If we look into nature, we shall perceive a beautiful 
exemplification of this subject. What treasures of 
amusement and instruction, does the vegetable tribe 
alone afford ! Who that possesses powers of observa- 
tion and reflection, need ever complain of tedium, when 
he has but to walk abroad and open a volume which 
all may read, — whose pages are replete with beauty 
and variety. When we commit a seed to the ground, 
the thought that we have done all in our power, should 
bring with it an humble feeling. That it should swell 
and germinate, — that piercing the earth, it should by 
minute degrees acquire strength, till at length its 
spreading foliage affords us refreshing shade, is an 
effect, not only beyond our power to accomplish, but 
even to explain ; — we may trace, and wonder, and 
admire, but no farther. 

I was led into these reflections by passing a field of 
cotton now in luxuriant vegetation. Little do the 
heedless laborers, who whistle through their appointed 
task of planting and weeding, dream of the important 
results that shall flow from their homely toil. Beneath 



165 

the sun and dews of heaven, the blossom expands and 
ripens, till, opening its fleecy treasure, the seed is ex- 
tricated by the aid of man from its snowy covering. 

But here a new scene opens, — a new set of opera- 
tives are called into action. The precious article is 
compressed, weighed, prepared for sale ; — how many 
anxieties, how much shuffling, how many broken pro- 
mises, what waste of words and needless altercation 
take place between buyers and sellers, before all is 
satisfactorily settled, fortunate, indeed, if the Attorney 
be not called in to make confusion worse confounded, 
and all this pester about the product of a weed ! The 
cotton is raised, brought to market, sold, insured, 
shipped, and safely landed at its destined port, where 
after another scene of barter, it is at last delivered to 
the manufacturer. 

Hitherto the process has not been disagreeable ; the 
toil of the planter is not uncongenial to man, for he has 
long learned to eat his bread in the sweat of his brow ; 
the excitement of trade does not necessarily include 
fraud, though too often accompanied by it; but the 
manufactory, — its sickly, wearied inmates alone can 
fully describe its privations. Shut out from the air 
and light, God's free boon to all, breathing a deleteri- 
ous atmosphere, pent up in ill-assorted groups, the pure 
and the polluted, the urgent claims of nature for re- 



166 

freshment and repose unheeded, when drooping over 
the monotonous toil, to be goaded into watchfulness, 
and if overpowered the laborer yields to sleep, to be in 
danger of cruel death from the engine, which like some 
fabled demon, crushes all that approach too near its 
voracious maw,- — these are but some of the miseries 
witnessed within the walls of a factory. But the ag- 
gravation of all, is, that it is the tender years of in- 
fancy and childhood which are thus sacrificed. You, 
who are blessed with freedom from such chains, who 
see your offspring happy around you, complain not of 
hard labor and frugal fare ; look here,-— be silent and 
grateful. 

What a contrast do the delicate fabrics, which pass 
from the hands of the artisan, present to the cotton 
ball, in its native state ! Only suited then to line the 
nest of the forest bird, by the skill of man, it helps 
to clothe the world. Let our fair belles, as they en- 
velope their forms in the graceful drapery woven from 
the humble plant, bestow a serious thought upon the 
labor, and perhaps sorrow, that have been spent to 
decorate the robe they wear. 

In connection with this subject are the labors of an 
insect, the loathsome looking worm, from whom we. 
receive the beautiful material of silk, once deemed too 
costly to deck an empress. Here again we must be 



167 

silent, and wonder, as we watch the insect emerging 
from the egg,«no larger than the point of a needle, 
gradually, but surely accomplishing its course, and ful- 
filling its allotted task — when having enjoyed its brief 
hour the little artist cheerfully weaves its shroud, and 
lies down to sleep in its silken tomb. 

Let us not disdain to learn a lesson from the worm, 
the product of whose labor we condescend to accept. 
But there is no limit to our illustrations ; nature is filled 
in every department, with subjects of beautiful interest, 
and of solid instruction. A deep moral is couched in 
every lesson she reads us. It is the very perfection of 
the beneficence of God, that in all his wonderful ar- 
rangements, while he would gratify our taste, he could 
also elevate our affections and instruct our understand- 
ing. But all are not apt pupils. He is to be pitied, 
who, beholding the rich array of nature, is not touched 
by her sublime appeal. I envy not the man, who, in 
the w r aving meadow, the flowing stream and romantic 
forest, sees nought but grass, trees and water. 

In the growth of the minute germ, to the stately tree 
— in the important consequences resulting from the 
cultivation of any one of the various tribes of plants, 
and in similar instances which lie open to our inspec- 
tion, we may gather many valuable hints. We may 
look to the good or evil principles, which are like seed 



168 

sown in our hearts, and which, as they are cherished 
or repressed, will poison or refresh us with their fruit. 
We may learn not to overlook an error because it ap- 
pears a slight one, but for that very reason, diligently 
to overcome it, lest taking deeper root in our character 
and acquiring strength, it becomes invincible to our 
efforts : lest we find that the spark we once could have 
extinguished with a breath, has become an overwhelm- 
ing flame, which many waters cannot quench. 



: 



169 



MENTAL DISSIPATION. 

While some are wasting their time and health in 
ruinous pleasures, and enervating their energies of mind 
and body in excessive pursuit of amusement, there is 
an erroneous habit in which a different class of persons 
indulge, who would shrink from the idea of excess, but 
which is most pernicious in its effects upon the mind. 
I mean intellectual dissipation, and want of discipline 
over the thoughts and imagination. That this is a 
greater evil than is generally considered, we may per- 
ceive, by reflecting how intimate is the connexion 
between opinion and practice, and how certainly our 
opinions will assume the colour of our prevailing 
thoughts, and be tinged with the hue of imagination. 

As it is from the heart, as, for want of a more defined 
term, we call the innermost and noblest powers of the 
mind, and the seat of the affections, whence thoughts, 
and words and actions originate, a moment's reflection 
shows the importance of guarding watchfully this co- 



170 

pious source of good and evil. That this is very gene- 
rally neglected we may gather from our own experience. 
If we endeavour to follow the current of our thoughts 
for half an hour, we shall find it a difficult task to make 
sense of the incoherent, rambling, and unprofitable 
crowd of images which hurry through the mind, even 
in so brief a space. 

It is a common remark, that we are not accountable 
to man for our thoughts ; but this is a low and defec- 
tive principle by which to regulate our conduct, even if 
the remark was correct, which it is not. We are ac- 
countable first to our supreme Judge, and in a second- 
ary degree to our fellow creatures. We are under the 
strongest moral obligations to be active in seeking their 
benefit, and in abstaining from whatever may injure 
them ; hence if our actions depend upon the wise re- 
gulation of our thoughts and opinions, it becomes our 
duty to watch over them for the sake of others, as well 
as for our own advantage. Akin to this common 
error is another expression which is heard every day, " he 
is no man's enemy but his own," as if he who debases 
his own character, did not at the same time inflict 
severe injury upon society, and commit daring rebellion 
against Heaven. If these remarks be correct, we may 
conclude, that though a person love not cards, or dice, 
or wine, the sports of the turf, or the delight of running 



171 

miles after panting foxes, or any other of those labori- 
ous diversions which are called pleasure — yet he may 
be equally useless, and in his way dissipated and in- 
volved in the guilt of unfulfilled duties. 

One very general species of mental trifling and 
waste of time, is practised by those who employ one 
half of their lives in reading fictions, and the other half 
in dreaming of them, in building airy castles " baseless 
as the fabric of a vision," and sighing over their demoli- 
tion. These are citizens of an unreal world, — their 
thoughts such stuff as dreams are : made of, — their 
state becomes morbid, — they are ever in quest of ex- 
citement, while the sober enjoyment of every day 
scenes is looked upon with disgust. Such a habit of 
mind forms a character neither useful nor amiable. 

But we may waste our moral energies even in ration- 
al pursuits, if we suffer our reflection to be absorbed by 
them, to the prejudice of important duties. If we 
devote too great a portion of time or money (to both 
of which our fellow men have a just claim,) to the in- 
dulgence or acquisition of any refined taste, we are only 
elegant triflers. — Could I count the stars — did my fancy 
continually soar among their glories — could I remember 
all their courses, yet forget to do justice and love mercy 
— could I name each flower that blooms in Flora's 
wreath, or classify with patient accuracy the mineral 



172 

treasures which are hidden in the lap of earth, yet 
did I at the same time neglect to cultivate the social 
affections, to perform the charities of life, I should be 
justly convicted of moral trifling. 

But there is still another, and more serious view of 
the subject. If we should watch our thoughts, those 
first springs of will, lest they ripen into unworthy opin- 
ions and actions, and thus expose us to the censure of 
others, we should also take heed to them, for reasons 
yet more sacred. To further our advancement in vir- 
tue, and to render us acceptable to that eye, before 
whose glance nothing is hidden, w T e should strive to ex- 
clude thoughts of revenge, anger, and discontent, out 
of regard to our own happiness. For though they may 
never find vent in words, (which is hoping almost an 
impossibility,) they will render the spirit restless as an 
unquiet sea. Their frequent intrusion will grieve away 
the influence of peace, and their allowed presence will 
assuredly lead to violent and criminal deeds. We 
should carefully shut out ideas even tainted with im- 
purity : an evil lesson is easily learned, but with diffi- 
culty forgotten j and the indulgence of unhallowed im- 
aginations blights the germ of eveiy virtue, and 
spreads a moral leprosy over the whole soul. We 
should shun, too, those vain, unprofitable reveries, 
which have neither form, nor sense, and if they leave 



173 

no evil, certainly produce no good effect upon the 
mind. That thus to discipline the thoughts is no slight 
achievement, whoever has endeavored diligently to ac- 
complish it, must have experienced. The most effect- 
ual way to exclude evil ideas, is not only to watch 
against their entrance, but to pre-occupy the mind with 
such as are lovely — such as are pure ; to think of these 
things, — and here we have much assistance from ex- 
terior objects. The works of the Divine Hand, are al- 
ways breathing beautiful and pure language to our 
hearts ; — the sorrow, the follies, even the crimes we 
daily witness, would, if our thoughts were regulated 
aright, excite reflections of pity, forbearance and mercy. 
The hours which come to us laden with blessings, 
should bring with them subjects of grateful thought ; 
or, if commissioned on mournful errands, should excite 
reflections of submission and humility. Above all, the 
consciousness that an omniscient and infinitely pure 
spirit, was watching the secret workings of ours, 
should operate as the strongest motive to the strictest 
vigilance over our thoughts. Is it true that we would 
shrink from having the reflections which occupy our 
minds one day — all their vanity, their selfishness, their 
impurity, their folly, exposed to the gaze of a fallible 
fellow mortal ? Could we not bear such a scrutiny 
without confusion ? And shall we not remember with* 



174 

humiliation, that they are actually laid bare in all 
their deformity, to the cognizance of Him who seeth 
not as man seeth 1 






175 



H O M E . 



Weep not for him, who, dying, 
Returns to earth again, 
Weep not for him who's lying 
Ofl field of battle slain. 
For him, the broken hearted 
Breathe forth the pitying sigh, 
Who from his country parted, 
In stranger lands must die. 



Such is the sentiment, feebly imitated, of the mourn- 
ful prophet, whose tender spirit sympathized so deeply 
with his unhappy nation ; — a sentiment which finds a 
response in every bosom. The human heart has 
in every age, acknowledged the strength of the tie 
which binds us to our native land. The familiar scenes 
of childhood are alike dear to all, and the desire to rest 
in the place of our father's sepulchre, throbs as strongly 
in the breast of the savage, as in the heart of his civi- 
lized brother. Those who have passed their lives 
among the scenes of home, whose lot it is to live, and 
die among objects of early attachment, cannot easily 
realize the vividness of this feeling, for it is not until 



176 

the tree is uptorn, that we see how strong a grasp it 
had taken of its native soil. 

It is, however, of a minor species of exile, if I may 
even use so harsh a term, that I would now speak : 
— not an inappropriate subject of reflection at this sea- 
son, when friends separate, and thoughts of affection 
and regret are wafted to distant regions of our country. 
There are but few of our community, who have not ex- 
perienced the pain of severing the numerous bonds 
which attach us to our home. Most of us have turned 
our backs on scenes consecrated by affection, — by a 
mother's tenderness, — a father's care. "We have, at 
some time, felt that sickness which overwhelms the 
heart, when, having cherished friends, we set our faces 
towards a land of strangers ; and it has been the desti- 
ny of almost all, who here terminated their mortal 
course, to be by " strangers honored, and by strangers 
mourned." It is a desolate moment which finds us 
amid faces who have never before met our view, ming- 
ling with those on whose affection we have no claim, 
and the indifference of whose aspect presents a severe 
contrast to the kind looks and warm hearts we have 
left behind. But, as the evening dews and cheering 
sun gradually revive the transplanted flower, till at 
length it raises its head in cheerfulness, — so the heart, 
opening to the voice of kindness, and seeking new 



177 

friendships — forming other ties, finds itself, at last, a 
home. A home ! How much that is dear and peace- 
ful, is comprised in that word ! What recollections of 
deepest interest, cluster around it ! How sacred, and 
lasting, the influence which a home, hallowed by vir- 
tue, sheds upon the mind ! It has, with gentle force, 
preserved many a wanderer from excess, and even 
brought to the guilty such touching reminiscences, that, 
in thinking of his father's house, the hard heart of the 
prodigal has broken, and he has returned. Sad is his 
lot, the quiet of whose home is embittered by turbulent 
passions, whose household gods are noise and anger, — 
pitiable his destiny, whose domestic peace has been 
broken in upon by death, — whose home is desolate, and 
the eye that cheered — the voice that welcomed him, 
have passed away forever. But, let us reserve our 
deepest commiseration for him, who, in his blindness, 
puts aside the calm enjoyments of domestic life, for 
more exciting pleasures, — whose taste exchanges the 
voice of his children, the smiles of his fireside, for the 
noise of revelry, or the blandishments of vice. 

Those who, in pursuit of fortune, health, or the nu- 
merous objects which men sacrifice so much to obtain, 
leave their native soil to venture upon an untried scene, 
have peculiar dangers and difficulties. Every one 
knows how much we are what circumstances make us. 



178 

When old habits are suspended, our plans of life bro- 
ken up — when the powerful, though perhaps unknown 
restraint, of the inspection of friends is removed, and 
we feel ourselves amenable to none but our own trea- 
cherous hearts — then if we be not upheld by strong 
principle — if we keep not a strict watch upon our con- 
duct, we may be led into errors, the consequence of 
which may darken our after life. How many youths 
of promise, who left the paternal mansion unsulJied, 
have, from some of these causes, made shipwreck of 
honor and of life, the members of our community need 
not be reminded. 

It is difficult, in the strangeness of a new scene, to 
resume our habits, — to collect the scattered threads of 
thoughts — to preserve steadiness of mind amid the em- 
barrassments of novel circumstances, or consistency of 
purpose among the tumult of new excitements. How 
necessary then is it, in important changes of situation, 
to preserve self-recollection — to examine the position 
we occupy, — the new duties which spring from it, that 
we may bear our part, in the drama of life, honorably 
and usefully ; for, change our station as we may, we 
cannot escape from our, responsibility. There are, 
however, many advantages to be derived from emigra- 
ting to this new, but improving region. We have an 
opportunity of breaking through many prejudices, 



179 

which were cherished by moving in the same circle, 
and going the beaten round of the same set of ideas 
and opinions. Thrown into a wider sphere, — brought 
in contact with many different peculiarities of charac- 
ter, we are aroused to investigate for ourselves, what, 
perhaps, we had taken too much on the authority of 
others, while the little wounds which our vanity inci- 
dentally receives, gives us useful lessons in humility. 
Besides, in a society alive with enterprise and spirit, 
thought takes a wider range, — our plans have freer 
scope, and our energies acquire fresh vivacity. New 
impulses incite us, and we must be of lethargic mould 
indeed, if, when we perceive a community, pressing 
eagerly forward in pursuits that make men honorable 
and virtuous, we are not stimulated to contribute our 
quota towards the common good, — to raise our hands, 
however feeble, in aid of the general effort. 

To such as have found a resting place in this once 
strange land, it must be interesting to retrace the way 
they have come, since first, with saddened hearts, they 
quitted the spot they have almost forgotten to call their 
home. Through what various scenes of distress and 
danger have they passed ; how often, in the seasons of 
pestilence, have they felt like men in a battle field ; — 
friend and neighbor falling around them ! How many 
they have followed to yonder cemetery, let the stones 



180 

that whiten its surface, remind us ! How many be- 
reaved ones have they seen depart, who had left there 
all that endeared existence ! Such recollections must 
have a salutary effect upon the heart. Has past dan- 
ger induced no reflection, — shall present safety excite 
no gratitude 1 






181 



ROBERT HALL. 

When a conspicuous character passes away from 
this earth, when death sets the seal upon the merits 
and failings of a noble spirit, it is natural and useful 
also, attentively to analyse, and deeply to contemplate 
those virtues and attainments which have produced 
such striking results. " The name of Robert Hall is 
rich in sacred as well as splendid associations ; a me- 
mento of consecrated intellect and energy." It is this 
remarkable character as delineated in his biography, 
and-illustrated by his works, that we would consider in 
some of its most impressive features. 

The peculiar virtues of Mr. Hall, and those which 
shed lustre over his whole character, were his beautiful 
sincerity of intention, and transparent rectitude of con- 
duct. It was not his talents alone, though they were 
of the first order — it was not the fluency with which he 
poured forth noble thoughts clothed in felicitous lan- 
guage, which was to him a ready servant, which gave 

R 



182 

him such an ascendancy among men, and chained them 
in breathless attention upon his accents, — it was the 
deep earnestness, the singleness of mind, the simplicity 
and sincerity, which like wings w r afted his thoughts to 
Heaven, which gave to his eloquence its greatest 
charms, to his instructions their powerful weight. His 
genius must, under any circumstances, have elicited 
admiration, but it was because it was kindled by fire 
from Heaven that its flame was so pure, so steady, so 
beneficial. It was, a matter of regret, among some of 
his admirers, that he had not devoted his talents to a 
more extended field ; but how would the aspirations of 
such a spirit have been chilled in the disturbed at- 
mosphere of the political world ! How temporary would 
have been the influence of the most brilliant efforts, 
compared to that which he exercised w T hen living, and 
which must attend his works while the tongue in 
which he wrote remains a language. 

There were combined too in this extraordinary per- 
son, virtues which rarely meet in such perfection in 
the same character. Brilliancy and depth, grace and 
solidity, just self-confidence without arrogance, an as- 
semblage of talents, and the most unaffected profound 
humility. These were some of the gifts and virtues 
which rendered him a conspicuous light in his day : — 
the shades of his character, for clay is ever mixed with 



183 

the most precious ore, were such as we might expect 
to find. A natural vehemence which he ingenuously- 
deplored, an over earnest manner of speaking, and an 
indulgence, particularly in earlier life, of a curious and 
rash spirit of speculation, and perhaps a too fastidious 
pride of composition, make up the sum of his important 
failings. Failings, which, though they were cast en- 
tirely in the shade by his christian virtues, were sub- 
jects of continued self-abasement in his own view. 

There was one event in the history of this individual, 
which brings to a thoughtful mind very solemn reflec- 
tions. In the meridian splendor of his faculties, while 
crowds of admiring hearers attended upon his weekly 
ministrations, and the intoxicating accents of applause 
were ringing in his ears — his mind failed, — his mighty 
faculties became clouded, and reason faltered. How 
should such a fact as this wither the blossoms of human 
pride, — kill the root of self-dependence, and temper 
the consciousness of superior gifts with awe and humil- 
ity ! Such at least was the effect of this temporary 
malady upon Mr. Hall. The ordeal was a dreadful 
one, but it purified him as he passed through it, for a 
decided and elevating change was perceptible from 
thenceforward in his sentiments. Doubtless, He to 
whom he had devoted his life, beheld his servant's peril, 
when he knew it not himself, and kindly took this 



184 

severe, but effectual method of crushing the rising 
thoughts of self-elation, and averting the mischievous 
•effects of praise. 

Another peculiarity in this eminent man, was his 
sustained, laborious course of study, — the determined 
perseverance with which he removed every obstacle in 
his way to the thorough knowledge of any subject. 
And this is a peculiarity, in this age of talk and show, 
when exaggeration, and love of effect, and superficial 
glare, threaten to crowd out all that is solid. We turn 
from the current literature of the day, to the works of 
such a writer, with something of the feeling one would 
experience as he escaped from the noisy dashing of a 
shallow water-fall, to the contemplation of a silent and 
majestic lake, whose waters revealed its depth, and 
whose calm surface reflected unbroken images of peace 
and beauty. What a sublime position does such a 
mind assume, thus stored with knowledge, cultivated 
by taste, adorned by science, and aided by the charms 
of eloquence, when it takes its place with graceful 
lowliness at the feet of its Creator ! Such a spectacle 
conveys those pleasing sensations which we instinctively 
feel when events follow their natural order. When we 
behold perverted genius, or abused talent, — or even 
when we see these advantages wasted on some second- 
ary object, and thus failing of their great and legitimate 



185 

end, we are conscious of a sense of disappointment ; 
but when a noble intellect is devoted to the noblest 
cause, — employs its energies in the noblest service; 
when the precious gifts of God are rendered back to the 
giver, with ardent gratitude, we know that this is coin- 
cident with right, and our judgment and our feelings 
acquiesce in full satisfaction. Another important re- 
flection arises from the contemplation of this character, 
a reflection full of encouragement to those, who, less 
gifted, walk silently through the retired paths of life, — 
the genius and attainments which embellished the mind 
of Mr. Hall, did not constitute his happiness. They 
were but the exterior adornments of his cup, — the 
blessed draught it contained was mixed by piety, bene- 
volence, and faith. 

In following the course of an exalted character, we 
involuntarily acknowledge the instability of man, by 
trembling, lest infirmity should cloud its brightness, — lest 
the light so resplendent should even yet be obscured ; 
but in this instance there is no such drawback to our sat- 
isfaction. The subject of these remarks consistently ful- 
filled his course, and the mind rests upon his character 
in life and in death, as on a beautiful and harmonious 
whole. He is now the witness of those glories which 
few like him have so vividly painted. He enjoys the 



186 



light of that purity, a beam of which irradiated his 
mind on earth, and has left a glow upon his writings 
which shall never fade away. 



187 



VICES OF TEMPER, 



Dost thou well to be angry?" 



There is no word more misapplied than amiability, 
nor any ingredient of our happiness so lightly consid- 
ered, and yet so all important as temper, which, though 
very much kept out of view, exercises so strong an in- 
fluence over the trivial occurrences which make up 
the amount of life's enjoyment.— Amiability is com- 
monly applied to such as are of an equable tempera- 
ment, — whose resentments are not easily excited, nor 
when aroused, violently expressed. But though I 
might congratulate the possessors of such dispositions, 
I would not applaud them for the exercise of a virtue, 
in merely following the natural bias of temper. Be- 
sides, there is a true saying, " beware the fury of a pa- 
tient man ;" these smooth and quiet tempers are able 
to cherish a concentrated venomous feeling, which is 



188 

any thing but amiable, and perhaps wounds the deeper 
that it is expressed in cold and measured terms. 

There is another class, who are generally called 
"passionate, good-hearted people." These are the 
volcanos and whirlwinds of the domestic world, and 
because, after they have outraged the feelings of friends, 
inflicted violence and injustice upon their unhappy de- 
pendents, they condescend, when reason returns, to feel 
— perhaps confess a late regret, they are termed " good- 
hearted." Miserable those who share the goodness of 
such a heart ! Others there are, who have been aptly 
likened to the " continual dripping of rain ;" their ill 
temper does not vent itself in any one act of violence, 
but oozes out in perpetual peevishness. 

But many are the shapes that ill temper assumes, 
and all dismal. By indulging an asperity of speech in 
trifling matters, we discover and aggravate ill temper. 
We would often excuse ourselves by urging that it is 
only our way and manner ; but that which renders 
another uneasy, even for . an instant, is surely an evil 
way. — Neither is the assertion strictly true, " The man- 
ner of the moment, is the feeling of the moment." 
Away then with this insufficient plea ; amend the 
temper, and the manner will be softened ; cherish the 
spirit of gentleness, and kind words and a gentle de- 
meanor will necessarily follow. The various cross 



189 

accidents of life, and the petty vexations to which 
every one is exposed, occasion a constant demand upon 
the temper, and he who would pass usefully and plea- 
santly through the world, must acquire some govern- 
ment over his passion, for an unstable man, like a 
city without walls, is at the mercy of fools and chil- 
dren, or like a helmless vessel, the sport of every pass- 
ing wind. Our path is often rugged — sometimes so 
beset with difficulties that it is narrow too ; some walk 
alone, — some, surrounded with helpless beings, whose 
presence is at once their joy and their anxiety ; while 
a few seem to bowl through life, — so even is their 
course ; but all are mutually dependent for kindness ; 
every one needs the cheering influence of good temper 
— the soothing charm of a soft answer. How are the 
perplexities of business increased by the indulgence of 
unconciliatory dispositions ! How many feuds and liti- 
gations arise from an easily offended spirit, or for want 
of a few calm words ! 

But it is in domestic life, man's last, holiest sanctu- 
ary, where, frightened from a selfish clashing world, 
peace would seek an asylum, that temper would seem 
the dispenser of good or evil. Wearied, baffled, 
wronged and chagrined abroad, we may find consola- 
tion in the charities of home. There we are sure of 
sympathy ; there is faith unswerving ; there the 



190 

welcoming hand, the listening ear — but let us beware 
that we introduce not evil temper within its sacred 
precincts, lest we excite terror instead of confidence, and 
find forced submission in the place of sympathising 
affection. Who has not painfully felt the influence of 
ill. temper over his home enjoyment ? How many a 
gloomy hour, a clouded brow, and silent meal — per- 
haps an unkind word, may be traced to this prolific 
source of unhappiness ! How frequently, under its evil 
perverse sway, do we wound the heart we love ! 

What bitter accents does passion prompt whose im- 
port we would fain recall, but like water poured upon 
the earth, they may not be gathered up, — and how 
often do the looks of our friends — the fearful obedience 
of our menials, and even the monitor within, ask, 
" dost thou well to be angry ?" This one defect will 
cloud the brightest qualities. The gift of genius, the 
pride of integrity, linked with unamiable feelings, may 
win distant admiration, but cannot secure to us the love 
of those around us ; and where is the heart that is 
satisfied with cold applause, — that seeks not some 
object on which to repose its tenderness ? Worse than 
in vain too all religious profession, where the temper 
is unrestrained. Empty and unacceptable the most 
splendid offering, if on the altar of sacrifice, we have 
not laid the spirit of anger : — for, surely, the first step 



191 

towards the source of benevolence must be the cultiva- 
tion of his spirit. 

Pernicious, as all will readily allow, the effects of ill 
temper to be, to restrain and subdue it needs no com- 
mon effort — -is no light task. Most other errors steal 
upon us gradually ; we have a little time to fortify our 
hearts; but this, as it were, takes us by surprise. 
Hence the necessity of resolute vigilance. Greater is 
he that ruleth his spirit, than he who taketh a city. 
Greater indeed, inasmuch as the concerns of the mo- 
ral, outweigh in importance the concerns of the physi- 
cal world. The spheres which roll around us in such 
order and majesty, — how almighty the design and pow- 
er that appointed their mysterious course ! These ma- 
terial existences obey the laws of their divine mover, 
and are subject to no erratic influence. "The stars 
stand in their courses, and none ever fail in their 
watches." But who shall govern the tumultuous spirit ! 
What laws circumscribe its wanderings ! With every 
promised aid from Heaven, how difficult for man, even 
in one particular, to rule his passions ! Yet, arduous as 
the performance of this duty may be, it must be attempt- 
ed, not only to secure our present happiness, but to war- 
rant a hope of future felicity. And who is willing to 
forego this hope 1 Not the most debased of men. It 
is twisted around our heart-strings. Among all the 



192 

pollutions of guilt, or the entanglements, the hurries of 
earthly cares, there are moments when the soul, con- 
scious of its destinies, aspires, though perhaps but fee- 
bly, towards its native heaven. But how shall an en- 
vious, revengeful, violent spirit, enter that abode, whose 
very atmosphere, we are taught, is composed of sereni- 
ty, purity, and love 1 Shall the unmerciful find wel- 
come at the throne of the merciful 1 Can the violent 
stand before him whose appellation is the Prince of 
Peace, whose last precious gift to men was peace? 
Let us not then be deceived, nor think slightly of that 
which is so intimately connected with our well being. 
In the temper that we allowedly live, we shall proba- 
bly die ; and we have no reason to believe that the seal 
which death shall stamp upon our characters, will be 
effaced, even by the hand of Omnipotence. 



193 



DEATH. 



To-morrow ! Oh, that's sudden. 



Death, in any shape, is awful. Softened by every 
possible alleviation, the descent to the grave is a pain- 
ful one, — a path which we are all reluctant to tread, — 
from whose fearful entrance, our nature instinctively 
recoils. It is true, through superstitious fancy, man, 
ever the fool of imagination, invests the subject with 
unnecessary terror, and " makes a death which nature 
never made." The stiffened corse, the darkness of the 
grave, the coffin and the worm, are the " terrors of the 
living, not the dead ;" yet sober reflection will find suf- 
ficient in the mystery which surrounds that final change, 
— mystery beyond conjecture, — in the wrench from all 
we love, — in the severe test to which that event must 
bring our characters, to render death not only a solemn, 
but an interesting and oft recurring theme. 

But sudden death has almost universally been depre- 



194 

cated, as an aggravation of our inevitable doom. Men 
fondly think, that if time is granted, warning given, the 
stroke will be less terrible; dreadful as the aspect of 
our enemy must be, we would fain look him in the face. 
Besides, were we but to depart for a season, we would 
linger among our friends, interchange kind words and 
affectionate embraces, — how much more, then, would 
we wish to say farewell, when we depart forever ! 
Some have, indeed, expressed a wish that their dissolu- 
tion might be speedy, and exempt from the struggles of 
illness, but such a desire is abhorrent to our nature. 
Who that knew his hours were counted, who knew that 
when the dial pointed to a certain moment, that mo- 
ment was to be his last of life, but would strive to 
make those closing hours his best ones 1 how carefully 
would he exclude unholy thoughts, how would revenge 
and anger die in his heart, — earthly dreams of honor 
and wealth fade into nothingness, and approaching 
eternity swallow up every vain and grovelling imagi- 
nation ! I have often thought that providence, indul- 
gent to our weakness, always kindly veils the last 
moment from our perception, that, even when girded 
for the journey, fully prepared and supported by chris- 
tian hope, we are spared the exact knowledge of the 
approach of death, and that, lest our heart should fail 
us, we receive, not suffer " death's tremendous blow." 



195 

But in the midst of folly, if not of guilt, with the heart 
crowded with vain and selfish tempers, unprepared, sud- 
denly, swiftly to pass from the cheerful scenes around 
us, into an untried scene, to have existence torn vio- 
lently from our tenacious grasp, there to stand a sur- 
prised, a trembling, a self-accused spirit — can reflect- 
ing man desire a boon like this ? If, when cheered by 
light from above, and with a fortified mind, even the 
good man trembles, as he enters with gradual steps 
that gloomy vale, dare any wish with hardened bravery 
to be hurled in the midst of its darkness, without space 
to offer a supplicating breath, or time to uplift the eye 
to Heaven 1 

How appalling is death, when he strikes down a 
companion by our side, as it were before our eyes ! Of 
all the numerous ills we suffer, pain, want, difficulties, 
separations, banishment, none wound so deeply as the 
loss of a cherished friend. Pecuniary deprivations may 
be restored or forgotten, difficulties overcome, bodily 
anguish sustained or mitigated, but who shall bring 
back the heart we trusted, the hand upon which we 
leaned, the eye that cheered us with its kindness 1 
Time soothes, and at length will heal the wound, but 
there remains evermore a scar, tender to the gentlest 
touch : one cord which bound us to life is broken, and 
the lightest allusion will cause it to ache and wring 



196 

us with anguish. Religion will enable us humbly to 
acquiesce, but he whose tears fell on the grave of a 
friend, permits us to •weep, and has not required us to 
forget. It is sad to part with those we love, when ill- 
ness has prepared the mind, and the sinking frame and 
pallid countenance have disclosed the mournful truth ; 
— difficult to be consoled, when affection has had an 
opportunity to overflow in attentive kindness, when we 
can look back with the thought, that our eye never 
slumbered over their sufferings, our ear was never dull 
to their feeblest moan, that our love has smoothed their 
pillow, our hearts drank in their last accents, and our 
hands reverently closed their failing eyes ! With all 
these consolations, how inexpressibly affecting the 
" last, last silence of a friend." 

There are none who have reached life's meridian 
point, but have experienced some of these painful emo- 
tions, for dear as are the ties of affection, and enjoy- 
ments of relationship, they are as fragile as they are 
precious. But those alone know the full bitterness 
which death brings with him, whose circle he has en- 
tered, without one friendly intimation, who have been 
awaked from tranquil sleep by a cry at midnight, — 
whose peaceful occupations have been broken in upon, 
by a pale messenger of evil tidings, or who, when at 
evening, they watched for the returning steps of a 



197 

friend, have received in their arms his inanimate re- 
mains. If there be any sorrow like this, sorrow which 
includes not guilt and dishonor, I know it not. But let 
not our hearts bleed and tremble in vain, nor turn away 
from the admonitory voice of friends, who speak the 
more emphatically, that they speak from the grave. 
The blow that has made their pulse stand still, will 
soon stay the beatings of our hearts ; but of little avail 
their death or our sorrow, unless it induce serious re- 
flection, and lead us to diligent preparation. If on all 
our plans of life, our scenes of pleasure, the wall of our 
happy homes, and the brows of our friends, that " sha- 
dowing hand is seen inscribing Death," surely it is not 
an intrusive voice that would say, be wise in time. 
Are we liable, among the unforeseen casualties of life, 
to exchange worlds in the course of an instant, — while 
warm with health, and buoyant with hope and youth, 
to be dashed unconscious and expiring on the ground, 
— while walking the earth with a joyous step, to have 
it break beneath us in a grave 1 Do we call this a so- 
lemn fate, it remains with us to avert its worst terrors. 
Do we dread to die suddenly 1 Let us seek to die 
safe. 



198 



AFFLICTION. 



Amid my list of blessings infinite 

Stands this the foremost, that my heart has bled- 



This is a sentiment which may not find general ac- 
ceptance. The young, to whom life is yet a bright 
future, and whose anticipations are all coleur de rose, 
will naturally turn with distaste from the thought of 
suffering ; and such as are immersed in pleasure, who 
heed nothing but the gratification of the passing hour, 
and deem " a moment unamused, a misery," will recoil 
from the every sound. But those who have ever reflected 
upon the human character, who have observed the 
strength and waywardness of passion, the tendency to 
presumption, the enthronements of selfishness and the 
prevalence of unkind tempers within them, will per- 
ceive how inevitably uninterrupted prosperity must 
cherish the growth of these rank weeds of a corrupted 
soil, and will readily allow the necessity of that species 
of discipline which the calamitous events of life are 



199 

calculated to bestow upon the character. Especially 
those who have felt this discipline, whom sickness or 
sorrow have not visited in vain, who have owned that 
" smitten friends are angels sent on errands full of 
love," and whose earthly comforts, crumbling in their 
grasp, have taught them to take fast hold of Heaven, 
will join in the exclamation of the poet, 

" For all I bless thee : most for the severe !" 

Among the various uses of adversity is the gift of sym- 
pathy, a most amiable and endearing trait, but which 
is only to be learned in the school of suffering. We 
may commiserate our friends' distress, and even think 
we share it, but it is impossible to enter into the sorrow 
which we have never experienced, to be touched with 
a feeling of the afflictions we have never known. 
Hence, when bleeding under recent wounds, it is not to 
the gay and happy that the sorrowful heart has re- 
source, for consolation ; — it rather shrinks intuitively 
from them, knowing that they can offer nothing but 
forced, unmeaning condolence. It is the stricken deer 
that leaves the herd, and those only who have them- 
selves been " hurt by the archers," know how " with 
gentle force, soliciting the darts, to draw them forth 
and heal." Affliction, too, opens the fountains of be- 
nevolence and mercy. When the hand of God presses 



200 

heavily upon us, we feel little inclination to lift ours in 
severity against our fellow men, — the desires of revenge 
become deadened in the heart, and even hate itself is 
disarmed. Besides, such is the insensibility of some 
natures, and such the ingratitude of all, that the very 
continuance of ease, the often recurrence of benefits, 
seem to produce an unnatural thanklessness and pre- 
sumption. We would be apt to deem our most valued 
blessings as things of course, or even our due, were we 
not sometimes reminded of the tenure by which we hold 
them, by their withdrawal. 

How many have indulged in a course of cold selfish- 
ness, until affliction taught them to feel for others ! 
How many hearts are there, that, like the aromatic 
wood, which exhales not its fragrance till it is bruised, 
must be wounded ere they yield the tribute of gratitude, 
whom sorrow must almost break to " bring forth sweet- 
ness out of woe." Many latent virtues are elicited by 
adversity. Fortitude under ills, patience through suf- 
fering, courage in peril, and resignation through all, 
can only be practised in the different scenes of distress. 

Prosperity conceals entirely the lustre of these vir- 
tues. Suffering, too, prepares us for the enjoyment of 
true happiness, — they need not look for solid peace, 
who never knew a serious thought. Vividly and grate- 
fully does the once darkened vision welcome the re- 



201 

stored light ; thus does the heart know how to value the 
gifts of Providence which have once been withdrawn, 
and is prepared for the right use of those blessings 
which were perhaps slightly received before, or un- 
gratefully wasted. 

May Heaven ne'er trust my friend with happiness 
Till it has taught him how to bear it well, 
By previous pain ; and made it safe to smile ! 

Physical sufferings are particularly suited to improve 
the character, not indeed by reason of any virtue there 
is in pain, but illness withdraws the attention from ex- 
citing objects, and produces a temporary calm in the 
passions. The disappointments we meet with from the 
treachery or instability of man, leave a bitterness in the 
memory, and sorrow inflicts a lasting sting in the heart, 
" for sorrow's memory is a sorrow still ;" but the recol- 
lection of those painful and helpless moments which 
called forth the kindness and affection of friends, must 
fill the soul with benevolent and grateful emotions. 
. While suffering under the visitation of sickness, there 
are many silent hours in which the spirit has solemn 
opportunities of communing with itself; the scenes of 
time, divested of their borrowed hue, appear in their 
just light, while considerations of eternity press upon 
the mind with deep earnestness. And this is the most 
precious use of illness, that it leads us with gentle 



202 

steps, to the contemplation of the opening grave. In 
the enjoyment of health, amid the bustle of life, and 
the various engagements of business, it is not easy even 
for the thoughtful, to realize as they ought that closing 
hour which is swiftly approaching. But sickness dis- 
sipates the mist which we endeavor to throw around 
the tomb, and discovers to us our real distance from it ; 
and if while looking into the deep and narrow house 
which awaits us— *if in this solemn pause our spirits are 
awakened to a stricter search, to the exercise of humi- 
lity in the view of errors and infirmities — to cling with 
stronger hope on the divine promises — whilst our at- 
tachment to the world is weakened in proportion, have 
we not reason to say that the effects of suffering are 
salutary ? If this be true, we must allow that we are 
as responsible for our improvement of the calamities of 
life, as of any other means of ameliorating the charac- 
ter. When parental kindness is lavished in vain upon 
an erring child, severer means are used to reclaim the 
wanderer — behold the outline of the dealings of heaven 
with man : its last effort of good will is often the in- 
fliction of severe suffering. Thrice unhappy he, whom 
blessings and sorrows leave alike unmoved. " When 
pain can't bless, Heaven quits us in despair." 



203 



MRS. INCHBALD. 



I remember w T hen first reading Mrs. Inchbald's works, 
being impressed with a peculiarity about them which 
I could not define. Along with the power of delinea- 
tion and strength of mind which they evinced, there 
was also a certain hardness of pencil, if I may so term 
it, and a want of delicacy in adjusting the different 
shades of character, which marked the style of this gift- 
ed writer. Her memoirs, which, compiled from a mi- 
nute and most honest diary, are almost auto-biographi- 
cal, and which have been recently published, throw a 
clear light on what might seem inharmonious in her 
productions. So diversified a volume is human cha- 
racter, that every page we turn discovers something to 
surprise, and affords material for useful reflection. 

Beauty and talent, gifts not often bestowed on the 
same individual, met in Mrs. Inchbald ; and the alter- 
nate sway w T hich these rival qualities exercised over her 
woman's mind, (for in caprice and love of admiration 



204 

she was a very woman,) forms a subject of curious 
speculation. It is not so much of her life, however, that 
we would speak, as of those peculiarities of character, 
which, though in this instance more striking, are to be 
met with daily in our intercourse with men, 

Though virtuous and pure-minded, her character was 
destitute of that timidity, the absence of which we can 
scarce forgive in her sex. Armed with conscious rec- 
titude, she disdained compliance with the forms of so- 
ciety by which females are surrounded ; but, though 
irreproachable in manners, she was not modest. Kind 
in all essential matters, she was not amiable and en- 
dearing. It would appear from these traits, that some 
minds may possess a solid and noble strata of generous 
qualities, to whom is not given the more winning and 
softer virtues ; and in a different view, that many may 
boast the decorations that make goodness lovely, with- 
out owning the elevating principle itself. Without ad- 
verting to this fact, we are liable to be imposed on by 
specious appearances on the one hand, while there is 
no real excellence ; or, on the other, of lurking away 
disgusted from one, who, though intrinsically valuable, 
would not, or could not be winning. 

The moral courage of this extraordinary woman is 
worth, shown out as it is in her actions, a volume of 
dissertations. It was this that bore her through sneers 



205 

and flatteries, and solicitations, in a course of laborious 
self-denial, which obtained her the luxury of indepen- 
dence, and the power of aiding those whom error or 
misfortune had involved in calamity. To the nume- 
rous temptations to indulgence and improvidence which 
surrounded her, she had the courage to say ' No/ — not 
a trifling conquest over vanity, by a young and beauti- 
ful woman. This same virtue of self-denial, though 
much lauded, is really of rare occurrence. Mrs. Inch- 
bald in her solitary room, denying herself the comforts 
of a fire, that her aged sister might be soothed through 
her years of infirmity, is a picture which every one 
must admire, perhaps very few imitate. Yet such are 
the habits which form characters whose influence tells 
on those around — the very act of repressing an idle de- 
sire, and denying an improvident wish, gives us to feel 
our power over our own spirit, and braces the mind 
with new energy. Self denial is the basis of indepen- 
dence, and this in man, or in woman, is the truest safe- 
guard to virtue. Many, many there are, who had not 
fallen into the toils of vice, had not an imprudent indul- 
gence first led them to forfeit their moral liberty ; ma- 
ny must eat the bread of bitterness in age, because their 
youth would not forego the viands of luxury. 

There is an expression in her diary, full of sad 
meaning — " very happy but for my years ;" how nume- 

T 



206 

rous would such confessions be, were all as candid as 
Mrs. Inchbald ! But surely when lengthened life brings 
such regrets, there must have been some serious miscal- 
culation ; the aim must have been a wrong one, or be 
inadequate. Sad indeed, when the shadows of life be- 
gin to lengthen, and the gloom of evening to gather 
round our steps, to feel the heart grow heavy while it 
looks back fondly to the cheerful precincts of youth, 
and trembles at the thought of approaching age ! But 
let us remember, these were the steps of a waning 
beauty. Alas for beauty, so dangerous in possession, 
so transient in its bloom, and yet parted from with so 
much sorrow ! Talent, principle, and we would hope 
piety, survived the death of beauty ; and we find a 
more grateful object of contemplation in Mrs. Inchbald, 
as with failings mellowed by years, asperities smooth- 
ed away, but with all her best energies glowing in un- 
abated fervor, she peacefulJy terminated her long career, 
leaving a remarkable example of the value of self-de- 
nial and independence of mind, while at the same time 
she affords an impressive testimony, how insufficient 
even these are to bestow happiness or entire consisten- 
cy, in the absence of religious principle ! 



207 



TENACITY OF PREJUDICE. 



It has been remarked, that at the period of the re- 
formation, few embraced the new doctrines who had 
passed the age of forty ; the impressions of youth, and 
prejudices of education, rivetted by habit, became al- 
most invincible to the strongest arguments. This, if it 
be true, is a striking feature in the human character, 
and it will be sustained and exemplified, not only by 
events recorded by historians, but by those which are 
constantly passing before our own observation. In the 
remarkable history of the Hebrew nation, we must be 
struck with the difference of character which existed 
between the race which left Egypt, and their children 
who crossed the river of Jordan. The former never 
forgot the land of Egypt, although it was the land of 
their captivity ; with a perverseness which seems natu- 
ral to man, they remembered all their indulgences, few 
as they were, while the bitterness of their slavery, the 



208 

weight of their oppression, which extorted such cries 
of anguish as reached the heavens, seemed totally obli- 
terated from their minds. Their early rooted prejudices 
never entirely gave way, and their murmurings and re- 
bellion brought with them, as is always the case, their 
own punishment. They were denied the sight of the 
country which they despised. The prepossessions of 
their children, however, were of a different kind ; they 
grew up under the direction of their lawgiver, and obe- 
dient to the divine guidance, their earliest associations 
rested on their holy tabernacle and the glories which 
surrounded it, while the precepts to which their fathers 
yielded reluctant obedience, took deep root in their 
youthful minds, and gathered strength in their advanc- 
ing years. Thus we see them an united, faithful and 
brave people. If we pass into general history, we may 
observe the same remarkable facts, though not portray- 
ed with such minuteness, as it is an inspired pen that 
alone can lay open the hidden springs of human mo- 
tives. Perhaps it is not asserting too much to say, 
that all momentous revolutions, have been effected by 
the comparatively youthful ; — not so much by the wis- 
dom and experience of age, but by the enterprise, vigor, 
and enlarged apprehension of the younger portion of 
the community. In the most important change that 
has occurred in the destinies of man, — I mean the intro- 



209 

duction of Christianity, the first believers were, with 
few exceptions, young men. The elder part of that 
generation to whom it was first offered, died in their an- 
cient unbroken prejudices. Turn to the succeeding 
pages of history, — how sternly, at first, was Christianity 
put away by the heathens ; it was reserved for those 
that came after them, to bow to its gentle sway ; its 
mild admonitions met them at the threshold of life, be- 
fore prejudice had occupied the strong holds of the 
heart. Glancing over the states of Rome and Greece, 
and through Europe down to the convulsions which 
have agitated the last hundred years, and crowded them 
with events as appalling as unlooked for, we may trace 
the same truth, that the fate of nations and communi- 
ties is committed by providence, into the hands of the 
young. We have given character to the age in which 
we live, — they will decide that which is approaching. 
It should be a solemn thought, that the character once 
formed, though it may be modified by changing cir- 
cumstances, — may make progress in good or evil, will, 
generally, remain unchanged. 

The habits and prejudices of youth, when confirmed 
by manhood, seldom surrender to argument or convic- 
tion. Age is too indolent, too unwilling, too dogmatic, 
to learn with aptness new lessons. The world seems 
just awaking to the importance of this truth : — hence 



210 

the general anxiety upon the subject of education, the 
banishment of old defective systems, and the introduc- 
tion of new ones. There never was a period in which 
so much has been done for the advantage of the young 
as the present. Those who have arrived midway in 
their journey through life, behold with wonder the fa- 
cilities afforded for those attainments which cost them 
so many arduous efforts. Genius and Philosophy, 
unite to render the path of science pleasant ; the chris- 
tian world has roused from its lethargy, and many 
friendly hands are leading the young along the ways of 
piety, and unlocking to their minds, the treasures of 
sacred knowledge. But the work has only commenced. 
Wide prospects of improvement are before us. When 
the energies of the mind are fully excited, at what 
point shall we venture to say, they will pause 1 He 
that looks around and observes the moral effect through- 
out Christendom, must feel that he lives in an age 
of peculiar interest, — that existence is a trust doubly 
solemn at this period. The results of the mighty expe- 
riments which are about to be put to the trial, will af- 
fect the happiness, not only of the civilised man, but of 
the savage, 



■ " whose untutored mind, 

Sees God in clouds, and hears him in the wiud," 



211 

and of the Heathen nations, who, in " their blindness, 
bow down to stock and stone." 

May we not reasonably hope, that the generation 
who shall succeed us, will be more enlightened as re- 
gards duty, more emulous of good, more judicious in the 
use of means, and more vigorous in the prosecution of 
enlarged designs 1 The heart must be cold that swells 
not at anticipations of such improvement and added 
happiness and virtue in our fellow beings \ but may I 
not say, happy they, who, by their efforts, have in any 
degree contributed to such results ? This consideration 
brings the subject home to the heart and conscience of 
all. In contemplating the subject at large, we must 
not be content with the gratification it yields us, nor 
forget that an aggregate good is accomplished by uni- 
ted individual exertion. At the present time, to be 
useless, is not the privilege of any — even the most ob- 
scure. The influence of a good example is in the pow- 
er of all, and how great is that influence we must, per- 
haps, exchange beings to estimate. Wo be to him who, 
entrusted with talent or power, in the indulgence of 
indolence folds his hands, or in a spirit of perverseness, 
opposes the benevolent schemes which distinguish the 
present day. To our own state, these reflections are 
singularly appropriate. 

The advance of improvement is already rapid beyond 



212 

expectation; education has commenced its cheering 
progress ; religion, the friend of all, is finding its way 
from river to river, and the dense forests of the interior 
resound to the melody of sacred praise. We hail the 
universal concern, evinced respecting education, as the 
sure pledge of great things for our section of country. 
Upon the youth, who are advancing to manhood and 
action, the prosperity, under Providence, of our state, 
must depend. Surely this reflection should strike deep- 
ly into the hearts, not only of parents, but teachers, 
pastors, all who have influence over the young, all who 
love their country, and desire its increasing happiness. 
In reflecting upon the responsibilities of the succeed- 
ing generation, we must perceive our own. If they 
are to be a well trained and intelligent community, ours 
must be the care to provide the means ; if they are to 
hold fast and defend that holy religion which is at 
once the glory and the safeguard of our institutions, 
the eyes of the young are directed to us for example. 
Let them receive this sacred treasure, unpolluted from 
our hands. In vain do sceptics offer their reiterated 
and worn out cavils — experience has fully proved that 
there is no real greatness apart from religion and mo- 
rality, and that no nation can attain prosperity, except 
in the prosecution of such a course as may claim the 
protection of the God of nations. 



213 



THE HABIT OF DETRACTION. 



Polonius. — My lord, I will use them according to their desert. 

Hamlet. — Use every man after his desert, and who shall 'scape 
whipping ? Use them after your own honor and dignity ; the less 
they deserve, the more merit in your bounty. 



This is a fine sentiment ; would that it were acted 
out in the intercourse of society, — that men even fol- 
lowed the rule of old Polonius, to give to each his 
deserts. Judging by common practice, we reverse it, 
and seldom accord to merit its due praise, or to infirm- 
ity its reasonable allowance. Perhaps, among the 
petites morales of life, there are none more violated, 
than mercy in judging, and tenderness in speaking of 
the characters of others. Whatever company we en- 
ter, we must, if awake to the subject, perceive with 
what harshness men's conduct is criticised, — with what 
rashness their motives are taken for granted, and how 
recklessly incidents are narrated which involve the 
feelings, if not the credit of another. This, though too 



214 

often arising from premeditated malice, is generally the 
result of heedlessness — an ill cultivated mind — an in- 
dulged unmercifulness of temper, or an undisciplined 
tongue. But whatever the cause, it is no light matter, 
in truth, it is. one of the great evils of social intercourse, 
and might demand the notice of an abler pen, than that 
which traces the lines of these ephemeral papers. 

The abusers of one of the noblest gifts of heaven, the 
power of expressing emotions, interchanging feelings, 
and embodying thought, have often been divided into 
classes. Of the known malignant man, or the open 
slanderer, I would not be much afraid ; the backbiter, 
(expressive phrase,) I would avoid as an insect I des- 
pised more than I feared; but how shall I defend my- 
self from the insinuator, who may take away my good 
name by a nod, or significant wink, — from the detract- 
or, who allows the fact of a meritorious action, but 
whispers me into discredit by suggesting an unworthy 
motive ? Whose peace is secure from the tale bearer, 
whose miserable business it is, to collect and circulate 
gossip, — and who in equal waste and abuse of time and 
breath, may, in one round of visits, create discord among 
families, and snap the bonds of friendship 1 The whis- 
perer, it is said, separateth chief friends. Bitter strife, 
blood shedding, and even death, have attended the steps 
of these incendiaries of society. 



215 

The guilt is not, however, confined to those who vend 
these unworthy wares ; many who would not directly 
commit the fault, or even repeat the tale, share it hy 
listening calmly, if not graciously, and thus give the 
evil tacit encouragement. Amiable, and in other re- 
spects conscientious persons, fall into this severe habit 
of judging. Men who would shrink from a dishonest 
transaction with their neighbor, will not hesitate to 
give an unfair estimate of his character ; they will say 
bitter things against the very man, who, if he were in 
distress, they would hasten to relieve, — if he were 
dying, they would unfeignedly deplore. To listen to 
the sweeping censures that we pass upon each other, 
one would suppose them prompted by personal dislike, 
yet w r e would start, were such cause intimated ; we do 
not hate, or really wish to injure the acquaintance of 
whom we are speaking, — we only speak as if we did : 
we would not use daggers, but we very smilingly speak 
them. 

We strike a blow at one, whom we have not even 
the poor excuse of hating, — with whom we have, per- 
haps, exchanged cordial greetings, — one, the sound of 
whose retiring footsteps is still heard; and whose 
character we commence demolishing, before the smile 
with which we bade him farewell has passed from our 
faces ; — a blow, be it remembered, whose peculiarity 



216 

is, that though it wounds, the injured person does not 
feel — until too late to protect himself. Is this picture 
over-drawn 1 Let the observation of every one, who, 
as the phrase is, is much in society, decide. There is 
» a pleasant story of a tune being suddenly arrested and 
congealed by frost, and in the evening, as the instru- 
ment hung near the fire, delighted the hearers as it 
thawed into melody. Could the conversation that en- 
livens our tea tables or social circles, be, in some mira- 
culous manner, preserved and conversed over again to 
our wondering ears, is it not to be feared that confusion 
and regret would mingle with our amazement 1 But, 
it would be ill-bred to express our low opinion of an- 
other to his face, — yes, and sometimes dangerous too ! 
That we may not be uncivil, must we be dastardly 1 
Is there no alternative between breaking the conven- 
tional rules of politeness, or bursting the golden cords 
of mercy 1 The truth would seem to be, that our at- 
tention is too much occupied by persons, instead of 
things. When taste, in its various departments, offers 
such a boundless field, it is a pity to trifle time in petty 
details of anecdote or slander. Surely, in this age of 
general cultivation, there are higher themes for discus- 
sion than the demerits of our acquaintances. For my 
part, I cannot hear a severe remark without disgust, 
though it fall from beautiful lips ; and when pained by 



217 

such sounds, I involuntarily think of the fairy tale I 
believed in childhood, of the maiden, from whose 
mouth proceeded reptiles. In all my wanderings I 
have met with few who realized the idea of her more 
fortunate sister, who spoke pearls and diamonds- 
Happy, indeed, are those whose hearts are so sweetly 
attempered, whose lips so prudently guarded, that their 
words are valuable as precious gems. Mercy, in this, 
as in higher things, is " twice blessed." Would we 
win golden opinions, we must express kind and just 
ones. Would we endeavor to preserve harmlessness of 
speech, let us keep our hearts innocent from cen- 
soriousness, and occupy our reflections with rational 
and exalted subjects. It has been remarked, that we 
think of people very much as we allow ourselves to 
speak of them ; by constraining ourselves to dwell upon 
the brighter traits of a person's character whom we 
even dislike, we will be won to softer feelings as we 
contemplate what is good in him, and the generous 
feeling which Ave exercise, will repay us with a plea- 
sure which will still more conciliate our hostility. Let 
us never venture to prophesy evil of a fellow being, 
lest, enlisting our pride, the ruin we at first foretold, 
we may at length desire. Under the peculiar govern- 
ment of the Jews, there was an express statute against 
tale bearing. If the practice were penal now, who 
would 'scape whipping ? u 



218 

But it is the harsh spirit which prompts this want of 
kindness in speaking, that is most to be deprecated. 
Strange, that in a world, where there is sufficient 
calamity, sorrow and death, to soften our hearts to- 
wards each other, — where we are hourly made to feel 
our mutual dependence, we should delight in adding to 
burdens already heavy, and strive by unnecessary- 
severity, to embitter the common voyage we are all 
pursuing. Fellow passengers through dangerous seas, 
so soon to terminate our perilous journey, that we 
should derive satisfaction in laying open one another's 
infirmities, opens a dark page in the human character. 

Were this subject more seriously considered, rash 
judgment and evil speaking would be, in a great mea- 
sure, corrected. There is no weapon sharper than unjust 
censure, — no poison more venomous than that which 
distils from malicious tongues. Were all the wounds 
and sorrows that have been inflicted by ill-nature, or 
heedlessness, collected in one mournful picture, it would 
startle those who never think of weighing their words. 
It seems a little thing to set the circle in a roar at the 
expense of an absent acquaintance, yet after-reflection 
will crimson the cheek of an ingenuous man. 

A few hasty w T ords are soon forgotten, but they may 
have left a stain upon the character of another, which 
tears of remorse can never wash away ; and thought- 
lessness is poor apology to offer to lacerated feelings. 



219 

The opposite practice of benevolence in judging and 
speaking, is within the reach of all. Our conversation 
may never sparkle with wit, but it may glow with the 
kindlier warmth of gentleness. We cannot always 
be performing generous deeds, but we can unceasingly 
utter words of kindness. Labored discussions, philoso- 
phical displays, are often out of place, but the language 
of benevolence is ever welcome, ever appropriate. 
Candor and good nature add charms to talent, and 
where talent exists not, supply its place with more en- 
dearing graces. 



220 



CONSTANCY 



-Abdiel faithful found 



Among the faithless, faithful only he ; 

Among the innumerable false, unmoved, 

Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified, 

His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal ; 

Nor number nor example with him wrought 

To swerve from truth, or change his constant mind, 

Though single — 



A noble picture, illustrative of one of the noblest 
virtues ; a virtue worthy an angel, yet not unattain- 
able by man. Induced by our peculiar situation, too 
often to deviate from the strict rule which our judg- 
ment approves, solicited by love of pleasure, borne 
away by force of example, or betrayed by a traitor 
within, we have great reason to regard constancy or 
firmness of mind, a desirable attainment. It is, indeed, 
the keystone of all other virtues ; without it, the most 
brilliant qualities will be only splendid materials of a 
character, — talent a useless gift, and life itself a wasted 
opportunity ; while with it, even moderate abilities 



221 

will be sustained in an honorable and useful course. 
This excellence, like every other, is often counterfeited ; 
obstinate, wrong headed people frequently mistake their 
mulishness for firmness, and rude, unfeeling ones, mis- 
name their unmannered malice, plainness, and plume 
themselves upon their courage. But firmness of char- 
acter, while it is the reverse of obstinacy, is never in- 
compatible with gentleness of temper, and is, indeed, 
generally marked by mildness of demeanor. Where 
the mind is assured, and the purpose steady, there is no 
need of noise or bluster ; it is in very protestation and 
clamor, that the vacillating will betrays their weakness. 
Milton, with his usual judgment, represents Abdiel as 
first tenderly persuading the rebel spirits to return to 
their allegiance, and not till he is repulsed with me- 
nace and blasphemy, does he rebuke them with severe 
dignity, " though alone encompassed round with foes." 
In the ever changing circumstance of life, this virtue 
will be called into various kinds of exercise, and modi- 
fied by varying events. How much will we need con- 
stancy of mind, when the path of duty lies plain before 
our own eyes, but is unperceived by our friends ! No 
easy task to preserve the mind well poised, between 
persuasion, ridicule and menace, to walk the way we 
think the right one steadily, though we walk it alone ; 
— difficult to pass " long way through hostile scorn" 



222 

unmoved ! When adversities darken our lot, we have 
need of firmness to grapple with difficulties, — to sustain 
us under the pressure of evil circumstances. What a 
high degree of firmness does it require, to submit with- 
out repining to the stroke that withers our earthly 
happiness, and while the heart is bleeding, to look up- 
wards with confiding affection to the hand that has 
inflicted the wound ! 

We must possess strength of purpose, too, to en- 
able us to examine our own characters, — to repress 
a rising evil, or enter into steadfast combat with an in- 
dulged error, or an over-mastering passion. No one 
who knows himself, or has ever attempted to stem the 
current of wrong inclinations, which are ever issuing 
from the heart, as from an overflowing spring, but will 
feel the necessity of going well armed into this battle- 
field, where his foes wear the guise of friends, and his 
friends themselves are half won over to the enemy. It 
is the natural and laudable wish of all, to possess some 
weight in their own sphere of action ; none are so de- 
stitute of ambition, as to be willing to live unregarded, 
and unlamented die. But without a share of firm- 
ness, we can exercise no influence over others. It 
is not saying too much, that we cannot be truly vir- 
tuous, if we have not courage to be bold in virtue's de- 
fence. We more than suspect the fidelity of that pro- 



223 

fessed friend, who steals from Our side in the hour of 
peril. But most of all do we require unswerving con- 
stancy, to resist the solicitations and example of friends 
and associates, to commit or countenance actions that 
we disapprove. It evinces more true courage thus to 
deny a friend, than to punish an enemy, and he is more 
the hero who resists persuasion to error, than he who 
avenges an insult. 

" Learn early how to say no," was wise counsel ; 
and a celebrated writer has written an affecting narra- 
tive to illustrate its force. We may withstand threat- 
ening language, for aroused pride steps in to our aid ; 
— we can even nerve ourselves against the potent en- 
treaty — our best resolves often melt, like snow beneath 
the sunbeam. False shame, and moral cowardice, too 
frequently betray us ; we are ashamed as well as 
afraid, to say no, and thus give way to error — violate 
our sense of right, that sacred guardian of principle, and 
ultimately bring upon ourselves the very contempt we 
risked so much to avoid. How many, have the want 
of this conservative principle, led into misery ; how 
numerous the victims of indecision, who have com- 
menced the career of vice, not that they were at first 
victims, but that some influential associate was ! What 
desperate, but unavailing struggles have they made, 
before they reluctantly turned away from the rules of 



224 

virtue and rectitude ! Pitiable situation ! to dislike 
evil, yet ever to be found in its haunts — to fear disgrace, 
yet feel it weighing down the head, because we have 
not the constancy of purpose to withstand solicitation, 
to do what we condemn, — yet lack the courage not to 
be what we despise. 



225 



HAPPINESS. 

When we look around upon this bright world in 
which we live ; when we enjoy the cheerful light of 
the sun, the refreshing breezes of heaven ; when the 
grateful alternations of day and night recruit our wea- 
ried frames ; when we survey the scenery which makes 
day beautiful, — the magnificence which renders night 
glorious ; when we observe our capacities for friend- 
ship, affection, gratitude, taste and science — why is it 
that we ever complain ? 

We are not unhappy because our Creator wills us to 
be so. He has made ample provision for our enjoy- 
ment ; he spreads under our feet the verdant carpet of 
summer ; he raises over our heads the foliage that 
screens us from its heat ; he strews flowers of richest 
hue and odor on our path ; it is his care that commands 
refreshing streams to fertilize the earth and supply the 
wants of his dependent creatures. The air that fans us 
blows by his appointment ; the various delights that 



226 

regale our senses are provided by his bounty; the 
whole creation seems to have been made not only to 
serve man, but to delight him also. "Why should the 
recipient of such favors be discontented, the object of 
such munificence be restless and unhappy ? The fault 
is indeed all our own ; like froward children who de- 
molish their toys and then weep over the fragments, we 
destroy our very blessings by wasteful abuse of them, 
or we ungratefully despise them till they are torn from 
us, when we childishly repine at the deprivation of that 
which, when in our grasp, we held as an unregarded 
thing. How lightly, for instance, is the blessing of 
health esteemed ! how many outrage nature by excess, 
and act as though they would hurry death to strike, — 
yet when at last the hour of languishment does come, 
what impatience and complaints ! 

How universally do we slight the present good, while 
we look for that which is to come, but which never ar- 
rives ; and, undeceived by perpetual disappointments, 
ever ready to be duped again, the morrow finds us no 
wiser from the mistakes of to-day ! But amidst all this 
disappointment and chagrin, there are sources of hap- 
piness within the reach of all. The sacred maxims of 
religion raise our views to scenes of exalted felicity, 
which burst upon the darkened soul like visions of 
heaven, — to springs of peace, which, though they ema- 



227 

nate from the throne of the eternal, heaven-directed 
find their way to earth. I have said in some preceding 
remarks that the means of happiness are dealt to man 
by an impartial hand ; — it may not be amiss to con- 
sider what are some of those means. 

I am aware that this subject has been treated till it 
is almost common place, yet it is always interest- 
ing. There are moments in every one's existence, 
when we weary of the routine of little cares through 
which we walk our daily round ; — when the rewards 
which the world offers its votaries, seem insuffi- 
cient to arouse us to exertion, — when in view of 
the calamities of others, or of those which threaten our- 
selves, the soul feels dismayed, and, unheeding present 
blessings, looks upon life as a gloomy thing, and trem- 
bles as it feels its earthly props shake beneath it. At 
such an hour, the reflections which are calculated to 
cheer and strengthen, owe their power not to their 
novelty but to their truth. If then we would allay the 
thirst of our fevered spirits at the fountains of peace 
and contentment, we need perform no weary pilgrim- 
age, nor wade through pages of abstruse reasoning to 
find them ; behold, the streams flow at our feet, inviting 
us to stoop and drink ! Yes, to stoop : for content can- 
not abide in the mind elated by pride and haughtiness, 
or in those soaring but vain dreams, in which the young 



228 

are so prone to indulge, till dazzled by the illusions of 
fancy, they loathe the quiet pleasures of an every-day 
world. 

Would we cleanse our minds from this mental vice, 
and look at things soberly as they are, we might es- 
cape much disgust and disappointment. Would we 
cherish humbler views of our characters and attain- 
ments, we should be spared many a sore wound, — mor- 
tified vanity would not so often be obliged to shrink. 
Happiness, let it be remembered, must be sought in the 
spirit of humility ; her gifts cannot be extorted, they 
must be deserved. If we would have our hearts the 
temples where peace presides, we must not forget that 
she can only breathe a pure atmosphere. Experience 
would tell us this, though a divine voice had not con- 
firmed it. Go, then, ye who are restless, unsatisfied, 
who fly from change to change unconscious that in 
yourselves the cause is to be found,— upon whose 
hearts the gentle showers of heaven's beneficence fall 
as water on the unmoistened marble, — cease your un- 
availing efforts and complaints. Look narrowly into 
your own characters and habits, — there is the wound 
which is ever ulcerating, which art nor emollient can 
heal. 

Do you there detect unhallowed passions ? Be sure 
it was they who barred the entrance against happiness. 



229 

Virtue and contentment are joined sisters. Where 
malice, anger, and censoriousness brood in the bosom 
as in a nest, how shall the fair dove of peace be con- 
tent to share it with such inmates ! Have you taken 
blind passion for your guide, are you pursuing the paths 
of guilt and error, and do you wonder you have lost 
your way, — that disquiet and remorse, though unbidden, 
make part of your company, and that gloom and dan- 
ger darken around your steps ? Yet it is not too late to 
retrace the way, — though difficult, not too late to break 
off the shackles of vice, and with determined effort to 
rise to freedom, to peace. 

It greatly promotes a contented temper, and aids us 
in bearing with equanimity the vexations which assail 
us, to consider that our trials are appropriate — not only 
best for us, but suited to our dispositions. Addison, 
with his quiet, inimitable pleasantry, has happily illus- 
trated this thought in one of his allegories, where he 
describes the discontented sons of earth as having the 
privilege of exchanging burdens. Every one knows the 
fable, and how pleased each applicant was, in the sequel, 
to resume his own appropriate weight of care. I have 
often, in a mood of depression, endeavored to fit my 
neighbor's burden to my shoulder, and have invariably 
been consoled by the discovery that it would sit still 
heavier than my own. That is, indeed, a rare alchemy, 



230 

which can thus extract matter of gratulation from our 
very misfortunes. The gay and prosperous, may per- 
haps smi]e at the thought of directing them to happi- 
ness. But gaiety, unless it be based upon piety and 
virtue, will be evanescent as the morning dew ; we 
look at it, it is beautiful ; we look again, it is gone. 
Who does not know that prosperity and peace of mind 
are not synonimous terms — that it is a deceitful glare, 
which, while it appears to light, too often misleads our 
steps ? But even to the afflicted, — to the weariest spirit 
that ever bowed beneath the ills of life, I would boldly 
say, " be happy ; you cannot command away these ex- 
ternal evils ; you cannot recall the buried, nor bid the 
painful malady to depart, but you can cherish pure 
thoughts, repress the rising evil, recall the broken re- 
solution, and exclude those guilty passions which inflict 
more disastrous consequences upon the soul, than many 
troubles ; above all, in the discharge of duty you can 



231 



INTIMATIONS OF A FUTURE LIFE. 



Nature's first wish is endless happiness. 

It was a pathetic expression of Young, — one of his 
most felicitous touches, when in allusion to a deceased 
friend, he said, " She, for I know not yet her name in 
heaven." The mingled emotions of hope and regret, 
the indefinable mystery which pervades our thoughts 
of the dead, has ever been to me a strong intimation of 
immortality. If we endeavor to analyze our reflections 
upon a departed friend, how runs the train of thought 1 
Time, which has stilled the throb of sorrow, allows us 
the sad pleasure of reviewing scenes, through which we 
have together passed, and recalling the lineaments of 
a countenance, once so pleasant to our sight. Our re- 
flections gradually pass to the hour of illness, the bed 
of death, the funeral solemnities, until they rest upon 
the silent spot, where a heap of dust only remains of 



232 

one, perhaps " dear as the ruddy drops that visit our 
sad hearts." Do our meditations pause there '? Are 
we content to confine them to the coffin or the grave 1 
When we think of our friend, do our thoughts dwell 
upon the inanimate frame which is mouldering in the 
earth 1 Rather are we not conscious of an instinct, 
which urges the mind beyond all this ? We leave the 
considerations of time, and forgetting the external ob- 
jects which at first absorbed our attention, "we find our- 
selves in an unknown world. Perhaps there are none 
whose lot it has been to survive a dear object of attach- 
ment, who have not detected themselves apostrophising 
that object, not as insensible clay, but as a living intel- 
ligence. " Wliere is he," is the natural question of a 
bereaved heart. It is not to the tomb, that we look 
for a satisfactory answer. I have heard persons in the 
moments of dissolution, addressing friends who had long 
been dead, and apparently forgotten, with an air of in- 
terest and reality, which evinced that they, at least, 
thought they were not invoking the remembrance of a 
mere name. That this is not the play of imagination, 
we may confidently appeal to the feelings of those 
who have studied the workings of their own minds. It 
is not enough to say, that these convictions of a future 
being are produced by the power of association, strong 
as that principle is conceded to be, nor by the instil- 



233 

merits of education. It seems to pervade the minds of 
all the denizens of the earth, cultivated or unlettered, 
refined or savage. Bar out from the hopes and fears 
of man, the future state, and what a blank does the pre- 
sent state become ! Never, since Adam opened his 
eyes upon the paradise he was so soon to forfeit, has 
man been content with the possession of one world. 
He, our first progenitor, perilled all in grasping at what 
he deemed vaster worlds of knowledge ; and his chil- 
dren still experience that intense desire, which is ever 
reaching forward to what is unknown and invisible. 

The Indian mother, who cradles her dead babe among 
the trees, cherishes her own wild fancies about its fu- 
ture destination ; her rougher mate soothes his dying 
hours with dreams of a world where winter never comes, 
where game is never scarce, and where his " faithful 
dog may bear him company." Why does one tribe of 
savages, when they deposit their dead in the ground, 
so carefully provide provision by their side, but that 
something whispers them, that the grave is not to be 
the termination of their brother's journey ; though, in 
the rudeness of their simplicity, they confound the spirit 
with its grosser covering. The Hindoo collects his 
failing strength, and with a last effort, lies down to die 
on the banks of the Ganges, deeming that its sacred 
waters will purify his spirit — its hallowed streams con- 
v* 



234 

vey him more surely into bliss. But not to confine our 
view to man, in his ruder state, if we revert to the po- 
pular belief of those nations, whose works of art and 
genius are still the objects of classical veneration, how 
many images of beauty occur to the mind ! The Greeks 
employed the most exquisite similes, to express their 
hopes of immortality ; the Roman Mythology is filled 
with striking and pathetic allusions to the same subject. 
The Hebrews, with the emphasis of oriental language, 
called the cemeteries the " House of the living,"— a 
sublime hint, worthy the guardians of the lively oracles 
of God. 

Closely interwoven, then, with our moral constitu- 
tion, is the expectation of a future scene, when that 
which now occupies us shall have passed away ; when- 
ever man has died, man has hoped to live again. It is 
true, that the analogies of nature lead us to the pleas- 
ing expectation, but they do not originate it ; they on- 
ly meet the desire of the soul, which eagerly embraces 
every argument which would tend to confirm its aspi- 
rations. 

Madame de Stael has observed, that the most pathe- 
tic expression in our language, is " no more." Though 
they no doubt impressed a foreigner more vividly, there 
are few words which convey so much meaning ; they 
strike a key, to which a thousand linked chords respond 



235 

and vibrate. Yet mournful as they are, they express 
hope — their sense is incomplete. We say of the bu- 
ried, that they are no more— on earth, the heart replies, 
and lifts its hopes to a brighter scene beyond. We feel 
that they are no more, to cheer and sustain the faint- 
ing spirit ; no more, to excite and reward exertion ; no 
more, with kindly hand, to help us through life's rug- 
ged places ; but we dare not set the seal of annihilation 
on their tomb — we recoil from the idea that they are 
no more forever. 

Though then around our dearest friends, " death's in- 
exorable hand draws the dark curtain close," we need 
not tremble, lest it should never be undrawn : let us 
then learn to 



" Love the place where now they dwell, 

And scorn this wretched spot they leave so poor." 



236 



ORPHANS. 

No father's tenderness, nor mother's care, 
Shielded my infant innocence with prayer. 

There is no word in human language which conveys 
to the mind such mournful images as the name of Or- 
phan. Living in a world where our dearest ties are 
daily falling off, and where the very tenderness of our 
affection renders us but the more conspicuous marks for 
the arrows of affliction, none of our bereavements com- 
prehend so much that is desolate, helpless and melan- 
choly, as the loss of our natural protector. 

I know that bitter indeed is the anguish of the parent 
whom death writes childless in the earth, who is called 
to close those eyes which looked into his with such 
guileless love, and to perform those duties which, in the 
order of things, he might have hoped to receive at the 
hands of his child. Unspeakable, too, a mother's sor- 
row ! Agonizing is the pang which separates hearts 
affectionately united, and overwhelming is that desolate 
feeling with which the survivors look around upon a 



237 

world dark and empty. But time will soothe these 
wounds, — new ties supply, in part, the place of these 
severed cords of love ; but who shall replace a parent's 
tenderness ? What heart can beat towards a child 
with the warm throb of a mother's ? who can exercise 
that forbearance which, though long trespassed on, still 
endures 1 whose love grows fonder as afflictions gather 
darker, and clings to its object even in the depth of 
moral degradation ? Whose eyes beam kindness when 
every other frowns ; whose heart and arms are open when 
all beside are closed against the erring and unfortunate 1 
A mother's alone ! We may win friends, and gather 
round us objects of dear affection, but our truest, our 
only disinterested friend, lies in the grave of a parent. 

I cannot behold a group of orphans without a deep 
sensation of interest ; their very unconsciousness is 
dreadful ; — tender plants, thus early exposed, w r hat shall 
protect them, — who shall shelter them amid the rough 
storms of life 1 A solemn claim have they on every 
heart — on the ready protection of every hand. But, is 
this claim always heard, or allowed, if heard ? To 
the disgrace of humanity, it is not. It is the aggravation 
of the woes of the fatherless, that they are not only 
bereft of parental protection, but too often experience 
oppression and unkindness. 

It is true that there are bright exceptions to this 



238 

charge ; there are many who hear the cry of the father- 
less, and protect those who have none to help them ; 
and surely a tenfold blessing will descend on such, — 
the blessing of the orphan and the orphan's God. But 
making every charitable allowance, it cannot be denied 
that, in the struggle and crowd, and clashing of the 
world, the rights and interests of the feeble are forced 
to give way to the strong, and hence the situation of 
orphans leaves them peculiarly defenceless from the 
wrongs of the defrauder, or the severity of the unfeeling. 

There is nothing more pleasing than the overflowing 
gaiety of a youthful heart. How cheerfully does the 
laugh of childhood ring upon the ear, so heartily, so 
untainted. But it is only to the winnings of a parent's 
love, that a child will thus freely unbosom itself \ 
children have the keenest perception of kindness, and 
the orphan feels it, though unconscious perhaps of the 
cause. A restraint -is felt upon its happiness, the feel- 
ings are thrown back upon the heart, for want of that 
sympathy which a parent alone can inspire. The 
blossoms of affection expand, but slowly and timidly, 
for the hand that would have watched and guarded 
them is gone, and the heart that would have hailed them 
is cold. 

As children advance in life, in many inslances do 
they experience the painful want of parental guid- 



239 

ance. " They may commit many errors which they can 
confess to none but the indulgent ear of maternal love, 
— they will be involved in perplexities, which they 
look in vain for a father's kindness and wisdom to lead 
them safely through. 

If we add to these moral ills, the outward sorrows 
w T hich so frequently attend the lot of orphanage, — the 
bitterness of dependence, the reserve or unkindness of 
friends, and the coldness of the world's ungracious 
charity, we must feel how strong is the claim of this 
class of unfortunates, not only on our commiseration, 
but upon our active kindness and tenderest sympathy. 

In contemplating this subject, the heart of a parent 
would be weighed down with melancholy considerations, 
and the destiny of unprotected children, would seem al- 
together dreary ; but here, as in every other dark mo- 
ment of man's experience, religion hastens to his aid. 
As if to meet the peculiar necessities and griefs of the 
orphan, the sacred oracles abound in assurances of pro- 
tection. The supreme Being has most emphatically de- 
clared himself the defender of the fatherless. When 
in his providence he removes the parents, he assures the 
defenceless offspring that He will supply their loss ; and 
he has laid up, as it were, a fund of charity for them in 
all ages, by the promises and rewards held out to those 
who befriend the poor and helpless. His threatenings, 



240 

too, against the oppressor, are awfully solemn. There 
is one remarkable passage on record, which I have 
thought must stand like a hedge around the property 
of the orphan, and stay the hand of the most rapacious. 
" Enter not into the fields of the fatherless, for their 
Redeemer is mighty ; he shall plead their cause with 
thee." These gracious assurances of that Being who 
directs our destinies, are sure supports on which to rest 
the discouraged soul ; indeed, without this confidence 
in the divine protection for their children, I know not 
how parents meet death with the semblance of compo- 
sure ; but, with these promises on their hearts, they 
can descend to the grave in cheerful trust, — nor is that 
trust in vain. Sad as is the lot of orphans, and bitter 
as must be many of their feelings in numerous instances, 
these sorrows have a salutary tendency, and if we see 
some, who, like the gifted, but unhappy author of the 
lines of our motto, squander their talents in sloth and 
vice, we may recollect many, who, apparently unpro- 
tected, have won their way to fame and usefulness. 



241 



LOVE OF LIFE. 

What is this mysterious tie, which binds the affec- 
tions of man to life ; a tie which afflictions the most 
exquisite cannot dissolve, sufferings the most appalling 
cannot break % That life should be inexpressibly sweet 
to those who are in the enjoyment of even a moderate 
share of happiness, is easily explained. A thousand 
ligatures, woven by affection and friendship, chain us 
to earth, and compensate for the numerous ills flesh is 
heir to ; cheering hopes are ever springing in the hearts 
of the sorrowful ; native resolution upholds many ; the 
supports of religion are the prop of some ; but setting 
aside all these considerations, if we examine closely, 
we shall discover a love of life in itself, powerful enough 
to sustain us under the extremest pressure. Visit the 
dying beggar — the pensioner of charity, to the dark- 
ness of whose lot no ray of cheerfulness can find its 
way, — homeless, helpless, unfriended and desolate ; — 
what has he to live for 1 But he prays, nay, agonizes 



242 

for prolonged existence. Hard as is his destiny, it is 
harder still to lose his grasp on earth. The condemned 
malefactor, an outcast from the fellowship of men, — 
he who has forfeited all that would seem to endear ex- 
istence, — even he can consent to live ; — to return, Cain- 
branded to a world, which he knows will take seven- 
fold vengeance on him. This is the love of life. 

If we extend our view over the condition of man, 
we shall perceive wise and kind reasons for this pro- 
vision in our moral constitution. Notwithstanding the 
numerous gifts of Providence, we must allow that our 
lives are chequered with suffering, that while we have 
some enjoyment we are called to much endurance. We 
often writhe beneath the afflicting stroke of God : our 
own passions and the evil tempers of others, are perpe- 
tually wounding our hearts, and frighting away man's 
truest comfort, inward peace. Add to this, the severe 
casualties of life, the perplexities and reverses of bu- 
siness, the ingratitude or treachery of friends, the accu- 
sations and injuries of enemies, and we shall look upon 
a scene of discord, confusion and woe, which might 
well dismay the most resolute. Against this array of 
actual evil, how many have nothing to sustain them but 
the bare love of life ! It is true that the fear of death 
is intimately connected with this principle, but that 
does not operate on all with the same force. There are 



243 

minds, who, from natural hardiness of temper, insensi- 
bility, — acquired familiarity with death, or better and 
nobler motives, can contemplate the end of a being, 
without dread ; but even these do not loath their life, 
do not feel impatient to die. An inspired apostle to 
whom the glories of Heaven were partially unveiled, 
yet owned a natural reluctance to being " unclothed" 
of his mortal habiliments. He to whom it was gain to 
die, did not despise his existence. 

There are not wanting melancholy instances where 
remorse, — the fear of shame, the pressure of melancholy 
and calamity, have urged the maddened spirit to choose 
death rather than life, — have nerved the hand with fa- 
tal rashness to cut asunder the silver cord which sus- 
tains the vital principle. But how would the number 
of this sad list be swelled, did not the human heart, in 
its darkest hours of despondency, cling, with an in- 
stinct which enters into its very essence, to this living 
breathing world, sorrowful as it is, little as it has to al- 
lure. With all its struggles and its woes, it yet is life. 
If, in the midst of our complaints and murmurings, we 
think that death approaches to terminate them, how in- 
stantly are we silenced by the proximity of this greater 
evil ; and like the old man of the fable, we are 
thankful for leave to resume our burden, and struggle 
on our way. While this conservative principle thus 



244 

prevents some from forsaking their post in the hour of 
peril, and others from seeking death in the delirium of 
grief, it also acts as a safeguard from the assaults of 
violence. Man has naturally a horror of taking life : 
the fiercest anger will be slaked in the blood of an ene- 
my. That instinctive care over the precious spark 
that animates our own mortality, which, though every 
hour exposed to extinction, yet glows so long un- 
quenched, leads us to respect the life of our fellow be- 
ings, even independently of the restraints of conscience 
and moral obligations. Doubtless, many a savage 
spirit, whom neither fear of God, nor man's regard, 
can bind, is withheld from acts of atrocity by this feel- 
ing, so strong and so inexplicable ! A noble poet, in 
vain levity, has endeavored to ridicule the expression, 
"why should a living man complain;" but to a re- 
flecting mind it must be replete with meaning. En- 
vironed by difficulties, bowed by affliction, bruised and 
suffering man still esteems it a precious boon to live — 
and with sufficient reason. The evils which surround 
him here are known, but none have returned to reveal 
the secrets of the grave. Even when cheered by light 
from heaven, by that revelation whose promises have 
illuminated the long-darkened portals of death, even 
then, so much are we the creatures of sense, that, 
against our better judgment, we hold with tenacious 



245 

grasp to tangible things ; we linger with regret among 
objects to which a life-time has familiarized us ; — for 
we are going a way that we have never gone before, a 
way we must walk alone, for at its threshold we quit 
forever the grasp of friendship and the embrace of 
love. 



w' 



246 



NIGHT. 



Perhaps there is nothing among the phenomena, 
surrounded by which we almost unconsciously live, 
more striking than the return of night. Wonderful is 
the machinery of the universe. With what beautiful, 
unerring regularity do the shadows gradually lengthen, 
— the rays of the meridian sun become less intense — 
grow still mellower, then indistinct, and fade away. 
How grateful to the mind, naturally impatient of mo- 
notony, is this continual change ; and after the fatigues 
of an active day, or the struggles of an anxious one, 
with what soothing influence comes night, to draw 
around each throbbing heart, the curtain of silence and 
repose ! Among the thousand absurdities of the heathen 
mythology, we find many poetical images inspired by 
this subject ; — indeed, it is not possible to lift our eye 
to the magnificence of Heaven— to behold those eter- 



247 

nal sentinels, who stand in their order, and never faint 
in their watches, without corresponding emotions of 
elevated praise. Great as is their material beauty and 
splendor, it is surpassed by their moral sublimity. Few 
can fixedly contemplate the heavens at night, and not 
feel a crowd of thoughts and emotions press upon their 
hearts, which reach far beyond this earth, and which 
it were vain fully to endeavor to express. An over- 
whelming conviction weighs upon the mind, of the 
power of that superintending hand which lighted up 
these worlds, and suspended them in the air ; while 
the aid which astronomy affords, increases our wonder. 
How infinite the intelligence, which conceived the laws 
that regulate the planetary system^ and yet how sublime 
in its simplicity ! While contemplating these worlds, 
what a speck does our globe appear ; how fades into 
nothingness, the petty strife — the sordid cares of men! 
Our thoughts ascend into a purer atmosphere, and as- 
similate with the sublimity of the scene. It is wise, 
then, to converse frequently with the glories that adorn 
night, to imbue our spirits with the harmony and tran- 
quillity they exhibit, and avail ourselves of the moral 
lessons they so impressively teach. It is well, often to 
enter into this august temple, before whose glory the 
proudest efforts of man dwindle into insignificance, 
and where the supreme architect has stamped such evi- 



248 

dent, traces of his skill, that every burning star would 
seem to bid us reverence the presence of the Deity. 

Not alone interesting in surveying the worlds above 
us, night also sheds a peculiar awe over the abodes of 
men. There is something strange and solemn in the 
aspect of a large city viewed at midnight; we are sur- 
rounded by thousands of living beings, yet all wrapt in 
silent unconsciousness, " 'tis as the general pulse of 
life stood still." At intervals among the silent man- 
sions, some window emits a light, and our thoughts 
penetrating the curtain, imagine the cause. Perhaps 
the eye of affection watches over the dying, or weeps 
beside the remains of the dead ; or beyond yonder half 
drawn drapery sits the sad wife, watching breathless for 
the footsteps of her truant lord, and tastes the bitter- 
ness of hope deferred, and ill requited tenderness. Ma- 
ny are the romances, might we but read them, acted 
within these brick walls. What wild hopes, what fears 
and anxieties may agitate the bosoms of those slumber- 
ers, for it is one of the often observed mysteries of our 
being, that the heart wakes, and grieves, and trembles, 
even while the senses are locked in sleep ! What an 
inexplicable theme is this \ Where is that world whi- 
ther our spirits fly, in which they converse and act as 
if half unfettered from their earthly companion, and en- 
ter so passionately into its imaginary scenes, that man's 



249 

sleep is often like a day of keeping watch, and he 
awakes as one escaped out of a battle 1 

In the still hours of night, we instinctively revert to 
that period when we shall rest in more unbroken slum- 
ber, a slumber which as to this world knows no wak- 
ing. How appropriate is the expression of a heathen 
writer, who called sleep one of the " lesser mysteries," 
so like to death, it would seem almost a provision to 
remind us at least within the space of a day, that we 
must die, — so refreshing to our wearied frame and spi- 
its, as to intimate the sweetness of a better rest, and, 
definite in its duration, to cheer us with the image of a 
brighter awakening from the repose of the tomb. 



250 



CHRISTMAS. 



Familiar, yet welcome, awakening associations, al- 
ternately pleasing and painful, what mingled recollec- 
tions does the natal day of Christianity bring to our bo- 
soms ! With what a pleasure do we revert to the scenes 
of infancy at this season : memory paints in restored 
brightness, many an hour of unalloyed happiness. The 
house of our father, — the maternal tenderness that che- 
rished our youth, the happy group that shared that love 
with us, — companions of our sports, with whom we 
knelt around that mother's knees, or nestling together, 
enjoyed the slumbers of childhood ; these, linked with a 
thousand sweet remembrances, arouse feelings which 
neither the cares, nor evils of the world nor time itself, 
can utterly extinguish. How soon, alas, does the hap- 
py and affectionate company which, from our paternal 



251 

home, set out together in life, become broken, separated, 
perhaps alienated. The mother who nightly breathes a 
blessing over her sleeping group, as they lie like " fold- 
ed flowers" not yet severed from the parent stem, blest 
in her ignorance, little thinks where they may repose 
their heads, when life's wanderings are ended. For 
those who are arrived midway in their career, can sel- 
dom look around upon an unbroken circle, and it is the 
penalty of living long, to live alone. Some with whom 
we commenced our course, were early hid in the grave 
from the storms of life ; others were shipwrecked al- 
most as soon as they had left the shore, and live to pain 
us with the sorrowful spectacle of their ruin. Seas and 
mountains intervene between one, perhaps anger and 
unnatural strife separate us from another, of those who 
have been hushed to rest upon the same bosom. Oh, 
how should such retrospects tighten the bonds which 
unite us to those that remain, and imbue with kindness 
and forbearance, our social intercourse, for very bitter 
is the thought of past harshness to friends who are be- 
yond the reach of our repentance. 

But this season, while it suggests remembrances 
which are tinged with sadness, brings with it, also, 
cheerful images, and pleasurable hopes. The counte- 
nances of our friends seem now to wear a kindlier as- 
pect, the heart expands and throws off awhile its world- 



252 

liness, and for one brief day society looks placid, as if 
to each ear some kind voice had "whispered, " there is 
peace on earth, and good will towards men." All 
Christian nations have delighted to consecrate this oc- 
casion with various and singular ceremonies, and hea- 
then custorns have been borrowed for its observance, 
until hallowed by time, and identified with sacred ima- 
ges, their origin has been forgotten. The remains of 
druidical superstition lent to an English Christmas, 
many of its ancient rites ; the misletoe bush, and the 
yule log, were evidently of indigenous growth. In 
Germany, the custom of exchanging presents, which is 
indeed one of the pleasantest that has come down to us, 
arose from the celebration of a pagan festival in honor 
of the birth of Sol, which was afterwards transferred to 
the day of Christmas. That is a beautiful picture of 
the first Christmas Eve, represented by the sacred his- 
torian with graphic skill, but in the perfection of 
simplicity. Eighteen centuries ago, nearly at the sea- 
son, and in much the same climate as that we enjoy, 
we may imagine the shepherds of Palestine as they 
watched upon the plains of Judea. The scenery of that 
picturesque country in its diversified beauty, was spread 
around them, touched by the moonlight and arrayed in 
mellow splendor ; while the constellations of heaven, 
familiar to their gaze, looked out of the deep blue ether 



253 

with unwonted lustre. Solemnly impressive is the mid- 
night stillness of nature, " nor eye nor listening ear an 
object finds : creation sleeps !" and solemnly was that 
silence broken, when angelic heralds clothed in the glo- 
ries which irradiate heaven, appeared to their daz- 
zling vision, and in sounds of melody worthy of the 
message they conveyed, spoke of peace and hope to a 
benighted world. A light then dawned upon earth 
which through each revolving year, as ages have elapsed, 
has emitted a clear radiance ; a plant then upreared its 
head, which time has matured to a stately tree, beneath 
whose ample shade nations have found shelter ; a pow- 
er then appeared, whose influence has sustained the 
hopes and guided the steps of millions, and which re- 
mains in undiminished plenitude to administer to the 
happiness of all earth's countless tribes. Well, then, 
might the messengers of gladness address the awe- 
struck peasants with " fear-not ;" and impressively to 
every heart, does each returning anniversary of the 
scene repeat these words of encouragement. Though 
life looks dark, though our course seems perplexed, 
and the draught which we must drink, is sometimes 
mingled with our tears, 

" Though wide the waves of bitterness around our vessel roar, 
And heavy grows the pilot's heart to view the rocky shore !" 

Let ns fear not, but look for light and strength to that 
x 



254 

sun of righteousness "which shall know no setting. Or 
if, surrounded by enjoyments, reflecting happiness from 
the eyes of those we love, — our hearts responding to the 
voice of friendship, we are so rich in blessings, that our 
very abundance excites a feeling of instability, — let us 
fear not ; though the friends and pleasures of earth must 
pass away, the favor of Heaven endures! Life is in- 
deed mutable, but " there surely is some blessed clime, 
where life is not a breath,' 5 and the event which this 
season recalls to mind, is a pledge of that happier ex- 
istence. 

While many are reciprocating expressions of kind- 
ness, and the coldest heart is aroused to livelier sensi- 
bilities, it should not be forgotten 3 that there are some 
to whom this season of general hilarity brings no joy. 
Will not a slight search (if indeed search be neces- 
sary) discover a helpless orphan, a desolate widow, or 
a poverty and disease stricen sifeier, vhcse wees, a 
little active kindness may alleviate! Are there not 
within our observation, some in pain, sorrow, or penu- 
ry, to whom we might be messengers of joy, and bid 
them fear not ! If there is no demand upon our cha- 
rity, are there no claims upon our kindness, no humble 
merit to advance, or modest worth to encourage ? Have 
we inflicted harshness or injury on a fellow mortal, is 
there one to whom we owe reparation or concession, 



255 

let us hasten to make it ; are there any to whom kind 
notice or attention would be a grateful balm, let us 
not delay those friendly offices, but consecrate this sea- 
son by acts of kindness, and by words of peace ! 



256 



THE CLOSING YEAR 



As when o'erlabored. and inclined to breathe, 

Apantiug traveller on some rising ground, 

Some small ascent has gained, he tunas him back, 

And measures with his eye the various vales, 

The fields, woods, meads, and rivers he has passed. 



I have read somewhere of an allegory in which was 
represented an imaginary elevation which commanded 
a prospect of time and eternity ; from which the eye 
could not only survey the busy scene of human exis- 
tence, but extend a glance beyond the gates of death. 
Will it be too fanciful to apply the thought to the clos- 
ing year ? Arrived at a brief stopping place in our 
journey, let us snatch one moment to compose our hur- 
ried spirits, to ask ourselves some serious questions, and 
to review with impartial scrutiny, the way that we have 
come. One moment, " for the day in hand, like a bird 
struggling to get loose, is going," the hours fly past 
with fearful rapidity ; who can estimate the worth of 



257 

time, or count its swiftness, or appreciate its responsi- 
bilities — one moment, for as the hours pass, new claims 
arise, fresh duties press, and other scenes of action open 
on the view. How much of life is composed of trivial 
occurrences, and yet how seriously do those insignifi- 
cant circumstances when combined, affect our happi- 
ness, and determine our character. There are perhaps 
but few, who, during the elapsed year, have had oppor- 
tunities of displaying splendid qualities, or have been 
called to act in those great emergencies which elicit 
the nobler powers of character. But the manner in 
which we have availed ourselves of lesser occasions, 
the spirit in which we have endured slight evils or re- 
sisted small temptations to w T rong action, is a surer cri- 
terion of character, than a few displays of generosity, 
self-denial, or courage, however brilliant. Thrice hap- 
py he, though humble and unknown, whose round of 
obscure duties are faithfully performed, and consecrated 
by pure intentions ; what though he live unnoticed, 
though over his grave no sculptured marble rises, though 
fame has never heard his name ! Though silently pas- 
sing through the world, he has departed unmissed from 
its crowd — yet who will not envy his tranquillity of 
heart, and the honor which awaits him where human 
actions are weighed in a just balance — where the bub- 
bles s>f fame appear what they are, unsubstantial froth, 



258 

and where gold looks dim. Amid the various incidents, 
whether pleasing or otherwise, in which we have been 
placed, it is well, now that the excitement of feeling 
has subsided, to enquire whether, might we pass through 
them again, our conduct would be the same ; whether 
in difficulty we would not be more serene, and more pa- 
tient in the reception of injurious treatment 1 In the 
enjoyment of the innumerable bounties of Providence, 
have we heightened their zest by indulging emotions 
of gratitude, or, even more heedless than the animal 
who acknowledges with mute eloquence the hand that 
feeds him, when heaven has remembered to be gracious, 
have we forgotten to be thankful ! In the possession 
of so much good, could we unwisely deny the most 
precious of all joys, those of cheerful and adoring gra- 
titude ! 

To those who have been borne through the events 
of the preceding year as on the bosom of an unruffled 
stream, whom this day finds with uninterrupted health, 
and spirits unbroken, whose happiness it is to look 
around upon the treasures of their affection and count 
the number full, whose peace no cruel disease has in- 
vaded, nor fierce passions marred — how can they re- 
ceive such gifts unmoved, and hope to be forgiven ! 
For exemption like this is not the lot of all. To many 
a sufferer, the events of the past months have been 



259 

written in characters of woe ; what cords of tenderness 
have been forced asunder ; what desolate hearts have 
asked in their loneliness, where is he 1 — alas, " not by 
the side whose every want he loved to tend." How 
many may apostrophize the grave in the touching words 
of the ancient poet — 

- Kind mother earth, I kneel to thee — I leave her here alone ; 
Oh ! gently hold her in thy lap, my all lamented one !" 

How many a parent weeps over flowers plucked in 
prime of spring ; how many an orphan head has been 
left unsheltered, with no stay save innocence and hea- 
ven ! Some whom the year found buoyant with health 
and hope, it leaves with blasted frame, and prospects 
darkened by the shadow of coming death. But still 
more unblest, if sorrow has not loosed from earth in 
some degree our grasp of fond desire, and induced re- 
flection and submission. Yet thus it is — we read mor- 
tality on every brow but our own, our friends and com- 
panions fall at our side, we bear the " loved and beau- 
tiful to earth," then turn with bleeding hearts to the 
world, to forget, to be again wounded, until, sinking 
ourselves, we are what we deplore ! 

As we proceed in our retrospect, how unavailing now 
appear the anxious cares for the future which haras- 
sed our mind, with what an undue weight did we suffer 
trifling vexations to oppress us ! Has hope been false 



260 

to her promise — the past may -warn us how we unre- 
servedly confide in her fallacious dreams again ; has 
the friend we trusted deceived us ; are we wounded even 
by the hand we loved ; let us turn from man, not in 
bitterness, but in wise distrust, and " lean on Him on 
whom Archangels lean." If disappointments have 
dogged our steps and made our way thorny, we need 
not wonder ; earth's wide surface is thickly sowed with 
seeds of vexation, requiring of us a watchful perseve- 
rance. But even when high wrought expectation has 
been fully realised, and we have touched the goal of 
our hopes, we must be conscious, in the very moments 
of enjoyment, of a latent feeling of disappointment — the 
dissatisfied spirit asks, is this all 1 Oh earth ! alike 
transitory in thy pleasures and griefs, when will thy 
children cease to thirst for thy cloying evanescent 
sweets 1 

Above all, the reflection of the present season should 
convince us of the nothingness of life,^and yet of its im- 
portance. This evening repeats to each, where is the 
fable of thy former years ? Fled, each may say, like 
a forgotten strain of music ,* vanished, indeed, they are ; 
but are we sure they are forgotten. Though the waste 
of time, the idle words, the evil actions of the past have 
faded from our memories, may we not justly fear that 
their remembrance may return uncalled, to our affright 



261 

and confusion ? Days, and the trifles which occupied 
them, may indeed be lost " to dumb forgetfulness a 
prey," but not the actions which have marked their course. 
Guilt may be forgiven, but its remembrance is never an- 
nihilated ; not " eternity that rolls her endless years, can 
wash the guilty deed, once done, from out the record 
of the past." What a thought is this ; how do the 
little struggles of earthly ambition sink beneath its so-, 
lemn import ! 

What matter how much abundance the past year has 
poured into our bosoms, if it has not conferred self-ap- 
probation 1 and with what elasticity of spirit may we 
resist the pressure of calamity, if in humble confidence 
we can bare our inmost souls to Heaven's inspection, 
ashamed of their imperfections, but conscious of obe- 
dience and sincerity ? If sorrow, sad acquaintanceship, 
has met with us, not unwelcome if she has kept us 
humble or made us thoughtful ; better to look ' back 
upon a year saddened by grief, and interrupted by ca- 
lamity, yet filled by virtuous actions, than to behold the 
spectacle of time destroyed, that worst of suicides, though 
filled with the splendor of prosperity. Should it then 
be true, that our deeds are irrevocable, and their memo- 
ry never obliterated, — should it be only probable that an 
hour is approaching, when, stripped of every specious 
plea with which we now extenuate our errors, we shall 



262 

meet those errors in their true deformity, with what 
sensation should we reflect, whether the record of the 
past months which have now completed their annual 
circle, will appear in our favor ; whether in that event- 
ful crisis, When the awed spirit will feel its need of sure 
support, we shall hail the portion of time, now emerg 
ing into eternity, as a friend ! 






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